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THE MOON had climbed the highest hill |
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That rises o’er the banks of Dee, |
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And from her farthest summit poured |
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Her silver light o’er tower and tree, |
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When Mary laid her down to sleep, |
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Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, |
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And soft and low a voice she heard, |
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Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.” |
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She from her pillow gently raised |
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Her head, to see who there might be; |
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She saw young Sandy shivering stand, |
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With pallid cheek and hollow ee. |
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“O Mary dear, cold is my clay; |
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It lies beneath the stormy sea; |
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The storm is past, and I ’m at rest; |
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So, Mary, weep no more for me.” |
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Loud crew the cock; the vision fled; |
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No more young Sandy could she see; |
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But soft a parting whisper said, |
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“Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.” |