THE MYSTERIOUS RINGING.
The winter evening draweth near—
O’er stubble fields the wind howls drear,
And borne upon the northern blast
To Karluv Týn rides a courier fast.
The tower bell rings sad to-day,
Without is frost, within is May;
The servants they are happy all,
And oft a merry jest let fall.
The tower ringer enters now,
An old man with a noble brow;
Still round him gather all the youth,
Like children for some news forsooth.
The old man sinks within his seat;
Sad is his look, though mild and sweet;
The youth stand round him waiting still,
To hear his tale, or do his will.
Oh, sad the news I have to tell—
[*]Our loved king Charles, he is not well
Pray, children, that he may recover;
Charles whom we love, yea, like no other.
Long he has suffered fever’s pain
Oh, would that he were well again!
Oh, God in mercy, save our king,
Save our good Charles, oh, spare our king.
