| O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
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| From glen to glen and down the mountainside
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| The summer’s gone and all the roses falling
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| 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide
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| But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
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| Or all the valley’s hushed and white with snow
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| 'Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
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| O Danny Boy, O Danny Boy, I love you so
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| When winter’s come and all the flow’rs are dying
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| And I am dead, as dead I well may be
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| You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
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| And kneel and say an «Ave» there for me
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| But I shall hear, though soft you tread above me
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| And all my grave shall warmer, sweeter be
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| And you will bend and tell me that you love me;
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| And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me
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| O Danny Boy, the stream flows cool and slowly;
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| And pipes still call and echo 'cross the glen
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| Your broken mother sighs and feels so lowly
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| For you have not returned to smile again
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| So if you’ve died and crossed the stream before us
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| We pray that angels met you on the shore;
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| And you’ll look down, and gently you’ll implore us
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| To live so we may see your smiling face once more
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| Once more |