| Just off a highway, a many ringed oak tree
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| Guarding forever his corner of meadow
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| Saw one hot June day a dusty old pedlar
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| Footsore and weary look round him for shadow…
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| «Come my weary friend and lay your pack upon the ground
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| And I will keep you safe if you should care to rest your head
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| Come my weary friend and lay your troubles all around
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| And listen to the music in the leaves above your bed"
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| Gladly the old man
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| Lay down by the oak tree
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| Muttered his thanks and fell soundly asleep…
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| The old pedlar
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| Slept on for many an hour
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| Resting his head on his hand by and by:
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| He dreamed a dream that he’d left his old body
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| And had become a fine gold butterfly…
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| The golden butterfly went flitting flower after flower
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| And dreamed he was an old man fast asleep for many an hour…
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| The golden butterfly went flitting flower after flower
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| And dreamed he was an old man fast asleep for many an hour
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| The old pedlar slept on beneath the great oak tree
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| Dreaming his butterfly dream where he flew free…
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| The golden butterfly went flitting flower after flower
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| And dreamed he was an old man fast asleep for many an hour…
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| The golden butterflies go fitting ever to explore
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| But dream that they are old men who can sleep for evermore |