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     But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger
     Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle-serpent
     Near and nearer circles swept.
“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—
     Pray to-day!” the soldier said;
“To-morrow, death's between us
     And the wrong and shame we dread.”

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,
     Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
     Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
     With her ear unto the ground:
“Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?
     The pipes oa Havelock sound!”

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
     Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
     And the roar of Sepoy guns:
But to sounds of home and childhood
     The Highland ear was true;—
As her mother's cradle-crooning
     The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music
     Through the vision of the seer,
More of feeling than of hearing,
     Of the heart than of the ear,

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