| Oh were I at the moss house
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| Where the birds do increase
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| By the foot of Mount Leinster
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| Or some silent place
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| By the streams of Buncloudy
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| Where all pleasures do meet
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| And all that I ask is
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| One kiss from you sweet
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| Oh the streams of Buncloudy
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| They flow down to the sea
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| By the streams of Buncloudy
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| I am longing to be
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| A-drinking stong liquor
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| At the height of my cheer
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| Here’s a health to Buncloudy
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| And the lass I love dear
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| Oh the cuckoo is a pretty bird
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| And she sings as she flies
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| She brings us glad tidings
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| And she tells us no lies
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| She sucks all of the small birds' eggs
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| Just to make her voice clear
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| And the more she sings cuckoo
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| The summer draws near
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| If I were a clerk
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| And I could write a good hand
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| I would write to my true love
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| So that she’d understand
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| That I am a young fellow
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| Who is wounded in love
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| Once I lived in Buncloudy
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| But now must remove
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| So farewell to my father
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| And my mother adieu
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| To my sister and my brother
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| Farewell unto you
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| I am bound out for America
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| My fortune to try
|
| When I think on Buncloudy
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| I am ready to die |