| In the days of the old covered wagons,
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| where they camped on the flats for the night;
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| With the moon shinning dim on the old canyon rim,
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| they watched for that Brown Mountain light
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| High, high on the mountain, and deep in the canyon below
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| It shines like the crown of an angel, and fades as the mists comes and goes.
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| Way over yonder, night after night until dawn,
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| A lonely old slave comes back from the grave,
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| Searching, searching, searching, for his master who’s long gone on.
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| Many years ago a southern planter
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| Came hunting in this wild world alone
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| It was then so they say that the planter lost his way
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| And never returned to his home
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| His trusting old slave brought a lantern
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| And searched day and night but in vain
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| Now the old slave is gone but his spirit lingers on,
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| And the lantern still casts its light |