| The bird had silver wings, my friends,
|
| And reached out for the sky;
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| It found its wings were broken,
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| It had lost the right to fly.
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| The pink-eyed salamander
|
| Changed its colours for the day;
|
| It changed from white to purest gold
|
| And left the stag at bay.
|
| Now I am but a p;oor man
|
| In the apple blossom state,
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| I choose to fly where’er I please,
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| The stag must needs a mate.
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| My golden salamander,
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| You must take me as I am.
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| I cannot change my colours,
|
| I am but a simple man.
|
| The golden salamander
|
| Had become the rite of spring;
|
| The silver bird made promises
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| That scarcely meant a thing;
|
| They told the wicked huntsman
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| Where the stag had run to rest.
|
| Now the elderly survivor
|
| Knew this was not for the best;
|
| He opened up his heart
|
| And prayed for peace for all mankind.
|
| He asked a fortune teller
|
| But found out that she was blind.
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| The clouds were passing over,
|
| There was little sign of rain;
|
| The sun was slowly rising
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| From its slumberdown again.
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| The stag had run to cover
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| In a copse beside the lake;
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| The huntsman broke the silence
|
| And the birds began to wake.
|
| The fortune teller smiled
|
| As the survivor spoke of fate.
|
| He thanked her for her interest
|
| But knew it was too late. |