| In my own shire, if I was sad |
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| The Isle of Portland |
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| Look not in my eyes, for fear |
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| The Merry Guide |
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| Now hollow fires burn out to black |
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| It nods and curtseys and recovers |
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| The Immortal Part |
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| Hughley Steeple - |
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| Twice a week the winter thorough |
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| Shot? so quick, so clean an ending? |
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