| Were the calf to die in the womb
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| And the ewe to bear her lamb too soon
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| Should the field of barley fail
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| And the baby at your breast grow pale
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| Our love will not mildewed grow — no
|
| Were the snow to last until spring
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| And your fingers blue up to the ring
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| Should you curse the icy blast
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| All your beauty it destroys at last
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| Our love will not mildewed grow — no
|
| But with every new born day
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| The same thought through our lives will always stay
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| And the sun will shine through the dew
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| The baby will have rosy cheeks like you
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| Our love will not mildewed grow — no |