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No. 30 |
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The Grey Cock |
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2 All around the waist he caught her and unto the bed he brought her, And they lay there a-talking awhile.
She says: O you feathered fowls, you pretty feathered fowls, Don't you crow till 'tis almost day, And your comb it shall be of the pure ivory And your wings of the bright silveree (or silver grey). But him a-being young, he crowed very soon, He crowed two long hours before day;
And she sent her love away, for she thought 'twas almost day, And 'twas all by the light of the moon. |
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128 |
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