| On the banks of the river, where the willows hang down
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| Where the wild birds all warble with a low moaning sound
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| Down in the hollow where the water runs cold
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| It’s there I first listened to the lies that you told
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| Now I lie on my bed and I see your sweet face
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| The past I remember, time cannot erase
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| (The) letters you wrote me were written in shame
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| And I know that your conscience still echos my name
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| Now the nights are so long, my sorrow runs deep
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| Nothing is worse than a night without sleep
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| I walk out alone, I look at the sky
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| Too lonesome to sing, too empty to cry
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| (Now) if the ladies were blackbirds and the ladies were thrushes
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| I’d lie there for hours in the chilly cold marshes
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| If the ladies were squirrels with (them) high bushy tails
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| I’d fill up my shotgun with rock salt and nails |