"
"Slight man, did you not perceive that I quoted poetry, and that the
allusion is to your native isle?"
"Faith. I wish the real Erin was over there; it's the old lady would be
in my arms as fast as I could run across. But this place deserves a
song, so here goes:--
Though down in yonder valley
The mist is like a sea,
Though the sun be scarcely risen,
There's light enough for me.
For, be it early morning,
Or be it late at night,
Cheerily ring our footsteps,
Right, left, right.
We wander by the woodland
That hangs upon the hill;
Hark! the cock is tuning
His morning clarion shrill;
And hurriedly awaking
From his nest amid the spray,
Cheerily now, the blackbird,
Whistling, greets the day.
For be it early morning, etc.
We gaze upon the streamlet,
As o'er the bridge we lean;
We watch its hurried ripples
We mark its golden green.
Oh, the men of the north are stalwart,
And the norland lasses fair;
And cheerily breathes around us
The bracing norland air.
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