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ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old,
She is my life, and my good, and my gold.
Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.
Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood !
Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow.
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall,
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,
So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong,
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.
Should'st thou be torn from me to wander alone
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,
Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light, and my sun,
The thread of two lives is woven in one.
Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden, thou hast not gainsaid,
How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand ?
Some seek for dissension, and trouble and strife;
Like a cat and a dog live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love,
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.
It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest,
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ;
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

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We thank thee for the hopes that rise

Within her heart, as day by day,
The dawning soul, from those young eyes

Looks with a clearer, steadier ray.

And grateful for the blessing given,

With that dear infant on her knee,
She strains the eye to look to Heaven,

The voice to lisp a prayer to thee.

All Gracious! grant to those who bear

A mother's charge, the strength and light To lead the steps that own their care

In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right.

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The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam ;
And the swan glides past them, with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

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There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.



The cottage homes of England !

By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes :
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves ;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

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