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THE SONGS THAT MY FATHER USED TO SING.
They come from the shores of the fading Past,
With banner, and sword, and shiekd;
I hear the sound of the battle-blast,
I see the courser, rushing past
Over the upturned field.
With banner, and sword, and shiekd;
I hear the sound of the battle-blast,
I see the courser, rushing past
Over the upturned field.
The songs that my father used to sing,
When I was a heedless one,
They come like flowers of early spring,
And pleasant memories they bring,
Of days that are past and gone.
When I was a heedless one,
They come like flowers of early spring,
And pleasant memories they bring,
Of days that are past and gone.
Once more I sit by the starlit stream
Where I sat in olden times,
And lend my ear to each darling theme,
And picture them forth as in a dream,
In rude, unpolished rhymes.
Where I sat in olden times,
And lend my ear to each darling theme,
And picture them forth as in a dream,
In rude, unpolished rhymes.
I hear a sweet, sad voice of grief,
From "Highland Mary's" grave,
In the rustling of the autumn-leaf,
In the binding of the golden sheaf,
And the murmur of the wave.
From "Highland Mary's" grave,
In the rustling of the autumn-leaf,
In the binding of the golden sheaf,
And the murmur of the wave.
Songs of the glorious days of yore;
Songs of the brave and fair;
Upon my listening heart they pour
A mingled tide—the battle's roar,
And the deep, still voice of prayer.
Songs of the brave and fair;
Upon my listening heart they pour
A mingled tide—the battle's roar,
And the deep, still voice of prayer.