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Then we'd cheer him loud and long,
For the jolly hunter's song;
Who, while roving in the shade,
Wooed and won the Indian Maid.


O come my love! O come with me
To my sweet home afar;

This arm will guard—no guide need we,
Save yonder evening star.

I am not of thy clime nor creed,
But be not thence afraid:

Love makes these accidents, indeed,
My pretty Indian Maid!

Thine eyebrow is the vault of night—

Thy cheek the dusk of dawn;
And thy dark eye a world of light—

My pretty bounding fawn!
I'll deck thy hair with jewels rare—

Thy neck with rich brocade;
And in my heart of hearts I'll wear

My pretty Indian Maid!

Then come, my love, O come with me,

And ere the braves awake,
Our bark will bound like arrow free

Across the mighty lake;
Where faces pale will welcome thee,

Sweet flow'ret of the shade,
And of my bower thou'lt lady be—

My lovely Indian Maid!


Then the elder ones would tell
Of the great things that befel;
Of the feats unsaid—unsung—
In the days when they were young;
Of the worth existing then—
Maidens fair and mighty men:
Or they'd sing the ballad rhymes—
Histories of other times;
Of the manners past away,
Living in the minstrel's lay:
Gil Morice, the Earl's son;
Chevy-Chase so dearly won.
It may be that I'm growing old,
Or that my heart is turning cold;

Or that my ear is falsely strung,
Or wedded to my native tongue;
Yet those strains so void of art,—
Those old gushings of the heart,
Heaving, swelling, like the sea,
With the soul of poetry;
They must live within the breast,
'Till this weary heart's at rest;
And our tears would fall like rain,
List'ning to old Aunty Jane,
While in mournful tones she'd sing
The ballad of the Gipsy King :—


"Lord Sempill's mounted on his steed,

And to the greenwood gone ;
The Gipsy steals to the wicket gate,

And whispers Lady Jane.
The lark is high in heaven above,

But his lay she does not hear,
For her heaving heart is racked with love,

With hope, with doubt, and fear.

"' Thy father's halls are fair and wide, The Sempill woods are green;

But love can smile, O sweeter far,

In a Gipsy tent, I ween;
The crawflower hangs by Cartha's side,

The rose by Elderslie,
The primrose by the bank of Clyde,

The heather bell on Dee.

"'But I've built our bower beside the Gryffe,

Where hangs the hinny pear;
For I've seen no spot in my roving life

To match the vale of Weir.'
The sweet flowers drink the crystal dew,

The bonnie wee birds sing,
But she hears them not, as off she flies,

Away with the Gipsy King!

"But the false page hurries to my Lord,

And the tale to him doth bear;
He swears an oath, as he dashes off,

And away to the vale of Weir.
The day fades o'er the Lomonds green,

But gloamin's hour is long;
He lights him at the Gipsy's tent,

And mars the bridal song.

"' You've stolen the pride of my house and heart,

With thy spells and magic ring; Thy head goes at my saddle bow,

Wert thou thrice a Gipsy King.'"
"' I used no spell but the spell of love—

And love knows no degree;
I ne'er turned back on a friend or foe,

But I will not fight with thee/"

"The Gipsy reels on the bloody sod,

And the lady flies between;
But the blow that reddens her raven locks

Was meant for the Gipsy King. "' Oh! what have I done,' Lord Sempill cries,

And his sword away doth fling; "Arise, my daughter, oh! arise,

And wed with your Gipsy King."

He lifts her gently in his arms,

And holds her drooping head;
But the tears are vain, that fall like rain,

For the Lady Jane is dead.
They laid her where the alder waves,

With many a sigh and tear;

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