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The friends she had left in her own countrye; With distant music soft and deep,

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;

And when she wakened, she lay her lane,
All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene.
When seven long years had come and fled;
When grief was calm, and hope was dead;
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name,
Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!
And oh, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her e'e!

And oh, the words that fell from her mouth
Were words of wonder and words of truth!

It wasna her home, and she couldna remain;
She left this world of sorrow and pain,
And returned to the land of thought again.

JAMES HOGG

T

THE FAIRIES HAVE NEVER A

PENNY TO SPEND

HE fairies have never a penny to spend
They haven't a thing put by,

But theirs is the dower of bird and flower

And theirs are the earth and sky.

And though you should live in a palace of gold Or sleep in a dried-up ditch,

You could never be poor as the fairies are,

And never as rich.

Since ever and ever the world began

They have danced like a ribbon of flame,

They have sung their song through the centuries

long

And yet it is never the same.

And though you be foolish or though you be wise,

With hair of silver or gold,

You can never be young as the fairies are,

And never as old.

ROSE FYLEMAN

C

FAIRY BREAD

OME up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy bread to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children, you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

T

THE HORNS OF ELFLAND

HE splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying!

O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle, answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying!

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying!

ALFRED TENNYSON

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

W

HAT was he doing, the great god Pan,

Down in the reeds by the river?

Spreading ruin and scattering ban,

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river?

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river.
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river,

And hacked and hewed as a great god can
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

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