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THE RETURN O' THE YEAR

Year after year the grass,
Year after year the grain,
But the sleeping dead in their lonely graves
They never return again.

Year after year the bud,
And the bird upon the tree,
But my fond love wha sleeps so sound,
He never comes back to me.

Year after year the wind,
Year after year the rain,
But the weary night and the dreary day
Bring nought to me but pain.

The sun and the moon and the stars,
And the clouds fade from the sky,
And the last leaves fall from the lifeless trees—
It's O, that I might die!

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