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THE way was long, the wind was cold,
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer, courted and caressed,
The harp, a King had loved to hear.
He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye— No humbler resting place was migh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed,