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28 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys
From Slieve-League to Rosses; Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long; When she came down again,
Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees,
For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting |
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