| She’s like the swallow that flies on high
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| She’s like the river that never runs dry
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| She’s like the sun beaming on the lea shore
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| I love my love, but love is no more
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| A maiden into her garden did go
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| For to pluck her some wild primrose
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| The more she plucked, the more she did pull
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| Until this maiden’s apron was full
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| Then out of these roses she made a bed
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| A scarlet pillow for her head
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| She laid her down, no words she did speak
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| And then this maiden’s heart, it did break
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| She’s like the swallow that flies on high
|
| She’s like the river that never runs dry
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| She’s like the sun beaming on the lea shore
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| I love my love, but love is no more |