The Lay Of The Jebite

Thereis a sound that's dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep.

Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

The exile's song, it thrills among The dwellings of the free, Itssound is strange to English ears, But 'tis not strange to me;

For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago, And hosts have quailed before the cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Oh, lose it not! forsake it not! And let no time efface The memory of that solemn sound, The watchword of our race;

For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know, So well as by the plaintive cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, Or Sidon's sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time, The palm-tree's shadow falls,

The pilgrims, wending on their way, Will linger as they go, And listen to the distant cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"