| Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by My mind was spent on rambling to Boston I did fly
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| I stepped on board a vision and I followed with the wind
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| When next I came to anchor at the rocks on Fairmount Hill
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| It was on the 23rd of June the day before the fair
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| When Boston sons and daughters and friends assemble there
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| The young, the old, the brave, and the bold
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| Came there till they took their fill
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| At the parish church of Thatcher, a mile from Fairmount Hill
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| I went to see old friends there, to see what they might say
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| The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning gray
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| I met the broken hills, hazes on as ever still
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| See I used to crash at his mother’s house, when I hung on Fairmount Hill
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| I paid a fly and visit to my first and only love
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| She’s as white as any lily, and as gentle as a dove
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| She threw her arm around me saying Andy I love ya still
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| Oh, she’s one Miss Fayes O’Bailey, the pride of Fairmount Hill
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| I dreamt I fought a violent war for the hand of this darling gal
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| Against an angry jealous fool by the name of Danny Gill
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| The clock it rang in the morning, it rang both loud and shrill
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| When I awoke in California, many miles from Fairmount Hill |