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Cold blows the wind to my true love, |
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And gently drops the rain. |
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I've never had but one true love, |
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And in green-wood he lies slain. |
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I'll do as much for my true love, |
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As any young girl may. |
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I'll sit and mourn all on his grave, |
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For twelve months and a day. |
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And when twelve months and a day was passed, |
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The ghost did rise and speak, |
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"Why sittest thou all on my grave |
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And will not let me sleep?" |
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Go fetch me water, my true love, |
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And blood from out the stone. |
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Go fetch me milk from a fair maid's breast |
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That young man has never known. |
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How oft on yonder grave, my true love, |
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Where we were want to walk. |
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The fairest flower that I ever saw |
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Has withered to my stalk. |
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When will we meet again, sweetheart, |
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When shall we meet again? |
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When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees |
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Are green and spring again. |