| See the ruin on the hill, where the smoke is hanging still,
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| Like an echo of an age long forgotten.
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| There’s a story of a home crushed beneath those blackened stones,
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| And the roof that fell before the beams were rotten.
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| Cecil Darby loved his wife, and he laboured all his life,
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| To provide her with material possessions.
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| And he built for her a home of the finest wood and stone.
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| And the building soon became his sole obsession.
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| Oh, it took three-hundred days, for the timbers to be raised,
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| And the silhouette was seen for miles around.
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| And the gables reached as high as the eagles in the sky,
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| But it only took one night to bring it down,
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| When Darby’s castle tumbled to the ground.
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| Though they shared a common bed, there was precious little said,
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| In the moments that were set aside for sleepin'.
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| For his busy dreams were filled with the rooms he’d yet to build,
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| And he never heard young Helen Darby weeping.
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| Then one night he heard a sound, as he laid his pencil down,
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| And he traced it to her door and turned the handle.
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| And the pale light of the moon through the window of the room,
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| Split the shadows where two bodies lay entangled.
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| Oh, it took three-hundred days, for the timbers to be raised,
|
| And the silhouette was seen for miles around.
|
| And the gables reached as high as the eagles in the sky,
|
| But it only took one night to bring it down,
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| When Darby’s castle tumbled to the ground. |