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Updated: May 12, 2025
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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