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Poor Robin is dead.
And the plowman weeps over his plow
Well a well a day,
And the plowman weeps over his plow.

Is his pipe mute for ay and for ay,
Robin Gray,
No more shall we tend to his song.
Aye, cold as a clod,
Beneath the green sod,
Poor Robin they've lain all along,
Well a well a day,
Poor Robin they've lain all along

Adieu then the forest and hill,
Robin Gray,
And farewell the vallies and grove,
Why the forest and hill,
And the vallies ring still,
Still echo his ditties of love,
Well a well a day,
Still echo his ditties of love.

The last sound of echo I'll shun,
Robin Gray,
Its dying notes live on my mind,
Can you them as you roam,
From your forefathers home,
Leave your country's feeling behind,