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"Sancta Isolda, Sancta Isolda, Genetricis Ancilla," went the choir, "Ora, ora pro nobis." And then "Quoe de coelis volitans, Sacras manus agitans, Foves in suppliciis Me, ne extra gregulo Tuo unus ferulo Pereat in vitiis."... and so on. The youngsters sang with a good will, while Master Porges, as poet and man of piety, glowed in his skin.
Hearts to thy piping beat bravely in gladness Through poverty, exile or pain. Gold is denied us thine image we fashion Out of the slag or the muck. We are thy people in court or by campfire, We are thy slaves, O Puck! We are the dancers whose morris-bells ringing Sound the death-knell of our years. We are the harpers who turn into singing Our hopes and our foves and our fears.
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