To the bride of the Comte de La Fère
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Just sixteen years old.
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Such exquisite manners
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Not in all of Provence.
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And a wondrous look, and a meek disposition,
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And out of love like a drunken count.
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Chorus:
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There is a black pond in the count's park.
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There lilies bloom, there lilies bloom, bloom ...
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Bride of the Comte de La Fere
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Becomes a wife.
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And in honor of the Comtesse de La Fere
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The forest beast is hunted.
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Hunting in the forest, horns are blowing,
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Spouses rush to the hand.
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Chorus:
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There is a black pond in the count's park.
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There lilies bloom, there lilies bloom, bloom ...
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But what about the wife? |
God have mercy!
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The horse collapsed in a hurry.
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And the count, to ease her breath,
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Tearing the fabric from her shoulder.
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And the dress creeps itself from the shoulders,
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And a brand is burning on the shoulder.
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Chorus:
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The executioner was a master, and now
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There the lily blossoms, there the lily blossoms, blossoms...
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Well, the count is neither a husband nor a widower.
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Both in the whirlpool - and the end ...
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Chorus:
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There is a black pond in the count's park.
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There lilies bloom, there lilies bloom, bloom ... |