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Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn, A hundred flags in air, But one which tossed but yesterday Is dead, one hearth is bare. The wife whose fingers fed the fire Grew weary of the play, A lad laughed thro’ the open door And stole my dear away. And now alone I face the road; No hearth, no home for me. And yet—Ah Life!—come sun, come rain, My beggar soul is free.