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Tyrants avaunt! henceforth to me Whose Harrow'd heart beats faster, The coach shall as the coachman be, And Butler count as master. That maiden's nose, that puppy's eyes, Which I this happy day saw, They've touched the manliest chords that rise I' the breast of Gifford Crayshaw.
Sorely was I Sorely was I With sorrows harrow'd with sorrows harrow'd . . . . . I inclin'd -yet humbly I inclin'd . . . . . . . . . -to the hands of his servants, . . . . . . . . . -striving with might to aid them. . . . . . . . . . -Straight the all-ruling God they've taken . . . . . . . . . -heaving from that haried torment . . . . . . . . . -Those Hilde-rinks now left me . . . . . . . . . -to stand there streaming with blood drops; With streals all wounded -with streals * was I all wounded.
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