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To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune.

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a resolute endeavour
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, Of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright

[compels !

At the melancholy menace of their tone ;

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone;

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls!

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

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To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

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"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladye,
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride:
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,

Sae comely to be seen

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But aye she loot the tears doon fa',
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen"-

But aye she loot the tears doon fa',
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

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"A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen-

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But aye she loot the tears doon fa',
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight were there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladye was not seen:
She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean!



A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
Ánd this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men ;
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry


The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—
When, oh too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing-

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