| As I was a-walking down by the Locke Hospital
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| Cold was the morning and dark was the day
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| I spied a young squaddie wrapped up in old linen
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| Wrapped up in old linen as cold as the day
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| So play the drums slowly and play the fifes lowly
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| Sound a dead march as you carry him along
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| And over his coffin throw a bunch of white laurels
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| For he’s a young soldier cut down in his prime
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| Oh mother, dear mother, come sit ye down by me
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| Sit ye down by me and pity my sad plight
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| For my body is injured and sadly disordered
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| All by a young girl me own heart’s delight
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| Get six of me comrades to carry my coffin
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| Get six of me comrades to carry me on high
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| And let every one hold a bunch of white roses
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| So no-one will notice as we pass them by
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| And over his headstone these words they were written
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| «All ye young fellows take warning from me
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| Beware of the flash girls that roam through the city
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| For the girls of the city were the ruin of me. |
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