Hand-book to the Orkney islands

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1868
 

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30 ページ - Gondula, and Geira, spread O'er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare : Spite of danger he shall live.
30 ページ - Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet. Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread, Wading through th' ensanguined field : Gondula, and Geira, spread O'er the youthful king your shield.
31 ページ - Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death ; Sisters, cease ; the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands ! Songs of joy and triumph sing ! Joy to the victorious bands : Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.
107 ページ - Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair.
30 ページ - Erin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done.
107 ページ - O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moon-beam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen, 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
30 ページ - O'er the youthful King your shield. We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare : Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war.) They, whom once the desert-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain.
29 ページ - Glittering lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. See the grisly texture grow ! (Tis of human entrails made) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

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