| As I fell out on a bright holiday
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| Small hail from the sky did fall
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| Our Saviour asked his mother dear
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| If he might go and play at ball
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| «At ball? |
| At ball? |
| My own dear son?
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| It’s time that you were gone
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| And don’t let me hear any mischief
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| At night when you come home.»
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| So it’s up the hill, and down the hill
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| Our sweet young Saviour run
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| Until he met three rich young lords
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| «Good morning» to each one
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| «Good morn», «good morn», «good morn»
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| Said they, «Good morning» then said He
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| «And which one of you three rich young lords
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| Will play at the ball with me?»
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| «Ah, we’re all lords' and ladies' sons
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| Born in a bower and hall
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| And you are nought but a poor maid’s child
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| Born in an ox’s stall»
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| «If I am nought but a poor maid’s child
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| Born in a ox’s stall
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| I’ll make you believe at your latter end
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| I’m an angel above you all»
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| So he made a bridge of beams of the sun
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| And over the river ran he
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| And after him ran these rich young lords
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| And drowned they all three
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| Then it’s up the hill, and it’s down the hill
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| Three rich young mothers run
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| Crying «Mary Mild, fetch home her child
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| For ours he’s drowned each one.»
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| So Mary Mild fetched home her child
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| And laid him across her knee
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| And with a handful of withy twigs
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| She gave him lashes three
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| «Ah bitter withy. |
| Ah bitter withy
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| That causes me to smart,»
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| And the withy shall be very first tree
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| To perish at the heart |