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BLUE GRASS BALLADS 57
HARP OF THE SOUTH.
" Harp of the North," the Wizard sang,
And tuned his glowing lays 'Mid gallant deeds and battle's clang
And clan to clan's affrays. Could I but sing so sweet a song—
And strong as Scotia's bard, I'd ring the charge of every wrong
Till tyranny set guard; More fit, for me, a sweet refrain
Of home and long ago, Harp of the South, I strike again
The dear, old, quaint banjo. No organ's diapason swell,
In grand cathedral, dim, E'er on the heart of novice fell,
In vesper's sacred hymn, With more impress of love and soul,
And deep devotion true, Than Southern song to mem'ry's goal
Thus borne, my harp, by you.
And now I sing, to the banjo ring,
In tune by memory led, And hear a sound like whispers 'round
The grave of the Past, long dead; |
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