| Sit down by the fire
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| And i’ll tell you a story
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| To send you away to your bed
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| Of the things you hear creeping
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| When everyone’s sleeping
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| And you wish you were out here instead
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| It isn’t the mice in the wall
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| It isn’t the wind in the well
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| But each night they march
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| Out of that hole in the wall
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| Passing through on their way
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| Out of hell
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| They’re the things that you see
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| When you wake up and scream
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| The cold things that follow you
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| Down the boreen
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| They live in the small ring of trees on the hill
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| Up at the top of the field
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| And they dance on the rain
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| And they dance on the wind
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| They tap on the window
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| When no-one is in And if ever you see them
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| Pretend that you’re dead
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| Or they’ll bite off your head
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| They’ll rip out your liver
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| And dance on your neck
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| They dance on your head
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| They dance on your chest
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| They give you the cramp
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| And the cholic for jest
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| They’re the things that you see
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| When you wake up and scream
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| The cold things that follow you
|
| Down the boreen
|
| They live in the small ring of trees on the hill
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| Up at the top of the field
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| They play on the wind
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| They sing on the rain
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| They dance on your eyes
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| They dance in your brain
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| Remember this place
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| It is damp and it’s cold
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| The best place on earth
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| But it’s dark and it’s old
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| So lie near the wall
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| And cover your head
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| Good night and god bless,
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| Now fuck off to bed |