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BALLADS.
I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.
I've waited patiently, but now
Would that the chase were o'er;
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.
Why stays he thus?—he would be here
If his love equalled mine;
Methinks had I one fond caged-dove
I would not let it pine.
