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114

The Young Troubadour.

To the mountain's wild echo I warble my lays,
And harmless I wander thro' woods and thro' braes;
The peasant, by moonlight, oft strays o'er the moor,
To welcome the song of the young Troubadour.

O, come to the lattice, and list to my lay;
Wave, wave thy fair hand and bid me to stay;
O! grant but this boon, I ask for no more,
'Twill enliven the song of the young Troubadour.

115

Then I'll sing the old ditties of heroes that died,
And of maidens like you, for whom lovers have sigh'd;
O! hearken then, lady, to-morrow I'm sure
You'll welcome the song of the young Troubadour.

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