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380 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Oh, no !
Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
See! the lamb's wool
Turns coarse an' dull By them soft, beautiful weeshy white hands of her.
Down goes her heel,
Roun' runs the wheel, Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.
Then show me a sight
Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
Oh, no!
Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Talk of Three Fates,
Seated on sates, Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me I
You may want three
For your massacree, But one Fate for me, boys—and only the one for me I
And isn't that fate
Pictured com plate — An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it ?
Oh, no!
Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. |
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