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You must philosophies. But why must you bore me to tears?. You're red around the eyes. You tell me things no one else hears You spend all your time crying. Crying the hours in tears. Crying the h
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Funny day, looking for laughter and finding it there. Sunny day, braiding white flowers and leaves in my hair. Picked up a pencil and wrote 'i love you' in my finest hand. Wanted to send it but I d
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Someone told me there's a grace that leads you straight from place to place. And you always leave the road behind you. You don't need your horses shod, just a dowser and his rod. Leave your mistres
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Baby, that preacher gave you his pain. To ?let the window? on his finger in the undertaker's name. (Chorus). Oh, cajun woman. Some people still call you a queen. I don't believe you're sinking.
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A sailor's life, it is a merry life. He robs young girls of their heart's delight. Leaving them behind to weep and mourn. They never know when they will return Well, there's four and twenty all in
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In Nottamun Town, not a soul would look up. Not a soul would look up. Not a soul would look down. Not a soul would look up. Not a soul would look down. To show me the way to fair Nottamun Town.
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Away with the buff and the blue. And away with the cap and feather. I want to see my lass who lives in Hexhamshire. Off with the . . . and over the moss and the mire. I want to see my lass who
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Chorus). Walk awhile, walk awhile, walk awhile with me. The more we walk together, love, the better we'll agree. We'll agree. One hand in your mouth and your finger in your eye. Undertakers bow t
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There were three men come out of the west, their fortunes for to try. And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn would die. They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed, thrown clods
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When the stone is grown too cold to kneel. In crystal waters I'll be bound. Cold as stone, weary to the sounds upon the wheel. Now be thankful for good things below. Now be thankful to your maker.
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Near by the swelling ocean, . One morning in the month of June, . While feather'd warbling songsters. Their charming notes did sweetly tune, . I overheard a lady. Lamenting in sad grief and woe,
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Please, Mr Lacey, let me work your loving machine. Please, Mr Lacey, let me work your loving machine. Will you let me control the handles, you know it's the best thing I've ever seen. Well, Mr Lace
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Jack O'Rion was the finest fiddler ever fiddled on the string. He could drive young ladies wild with a tune his wires would sing. He could fiddle the fish out of salt water, water from a marble ston
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