| Passing a song to you both sad and true
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| About a highly born Hungarian
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| Though gypsy blood was red her blood was blue
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| And very definitely Arian
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| She loved a proletarian
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| In a valley far away
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| A gypsy minstrel came to play
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| A serenade
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| Everyone from far and near
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| Collected in the woods to hear
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| The tune he played
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| Wild and free
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| That haunting melody
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| Enchanted maid and man
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| Young and old believed the tales he told
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| And joined his caravan;
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| A most impulsive foolish man
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| Their troubles then began
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| The rain soon brought them home again
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| No longer wild and free
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| Snow and hail
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| Had made that nightingale
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| Sound very much off key
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| A sorry tale you will agree
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| What fools these mortals be
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| But one poor lady left her heart behind
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| And from that moment life was sad for her
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| Naught could bring comfort to her troubled mind
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| Which on the whole was very bad for her
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| That is why
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| To any gypsy passing by
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| She’d always sigh:
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| «Play me a gypsy melody from far away
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| An echo wild and gay
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| From forgotten yesterday
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| My lonely heart can still remember
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| The magic nights beneath the open sky
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| So gypsy play for me
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| That song I love until the day I die
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| My lonely heart can still remember
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| Those magic nights beneath the open sky
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| So gypsy play for me
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| That song I love until the day I die |