| It’s supper time but he stays outside
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| He tends to feel the world, the sun is high
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| He drowns himself in a bottle of rye
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| The young men live while the old men…
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| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
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| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry my soul
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
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| In a bed where I can sleep
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry my soul
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry me
|
| To a place where I can sleep
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| The days are hard but there’s mouths to feed
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| And his old hands still sewing seed
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| Remembered when he was young, he made that creek
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| Until the mortal core
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| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry my soul
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
|
| In a bed where I can sleep
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry my soul
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry me
|
| To a place where I can sleep
|
| The days are hard
|
| The days are hard
|
| The days are hard
|
| The days are hard
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you bury me
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry my soul
|
| Oh, Mother Mary won’t you carry me
|
| To a place where I can sleep |