They speak a strange tongue and utter a cry.
O brother, good brother, what’s that shines and gleams?
On their breasts, on their backs,—it glitters and beams.
Let us talk with these strangers, let us speak with these men,
There are hundreds of brothers behind in the glen,
They surely can’t harm us, they come from the sky,
And they smile as they see us. Then let us draw nigh.
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O brother, good brother, had I never been near,