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'Twas merry then in England
In autumn's dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.
And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth
In garb of green did go
The shade to invade
With the arrow and the bow.
Ye spirits of our fathers!
Extend to us your care,
Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair,
'Tis merry yet in Old England,
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow!


THE BALLAD OF ROU.
BY LORD LYTTON.

From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood,
And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood;
There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire,
And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire.
To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew,
While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.
"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail,
We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail.


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