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There's a sultry cloud, that now doth shroud, |
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Lord Endless, walking to the Hall, |
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Farewell, thou busy world, |
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Drear night has dropped her sable veil, |
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Then, Pundants wise, pray don't despise |
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Why flyest thou away with fear ? |
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Anxious by the gliding stream, |
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Fill'd with the feasts the sun or shower betrays |
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Should Fortune bless with halcyon scenes |
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The early sun is rising fair and bright, |
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When I was a mere school-boy, |
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O ! the marvellous at Thornville House, |
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Far away from the noise and deceptions of trade, |
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How oft times with my rod in hand, |
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A fisherman one morn display'd, |
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I've lost my rod, my flies, and knife, |
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To anule I went to the drains, |
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The rising sun's resplendent beams, |
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Hark ! the warbling birds around, |
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Give me the babbling brook that plays, |
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No doubt St. Patrick was an angler, |
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From town I walk'd to take the air, |
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Last night Tom Snooks, says he to me, |
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Break up the house, go more of your mag, |
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South-west blows the wind, and a lowering sky |
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