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The minstrel boy to the war is gone, |
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In the ranks of death you'll find him; |
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His fathers sword he has girded on, |
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And his wild harp slung behind him. |
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"land of song!" said the warrior bard, |
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"though all the world betrays thee, |
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One sword at least thy rights shall guard, |
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One faithful harp shall praise thee!" |
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The minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain |
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Could not bring that proud soul under; |
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The harp he loved ne'er spoke again |
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For he tore is chords asunder; |
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And said "no chains shall sully thee, |
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Thou soul of love and bravery! |
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Thy songs were made for the pure and free, |
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They shall never sound in slavery." |