| It was on one cold wintery nite,
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| When the wind blew across the wild moor.
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| When Mary came wandering home with her child,
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| 'Till she came to her own fathers door.
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| Father dear father she cried,
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| Come down and open the door.
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| Or the child in my arms will perish and die
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| From the winds that blow across the wild moor.
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| Why did I leave this fair spot,
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| Where once I was happy and free,
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| I am now tune to roam without friends or a home,
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| And no one to take pity on me
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| But her father was deaf to her cries,
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| Not a sound of her voice did he hear.
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| So the watchdog did howl, and the village bells tolled,
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| And the wind blew across the wild moor.
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| Oh how the old man must’ve felt,
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| When he came to the door on next morn,
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| And he found Mary dead but the child still alive,
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| Closely grasped in his dead mothers arms.
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| In anger he tore his grey hair.
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| And the tears down his cheeks they did pour.
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| When he saw how that nite she had perished and died.
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| From the wind that blew across the wild moor.
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| In grief the old man pined away,
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| And the child to its mother went soon.
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| And no one they say have lived that to these days
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| And the cottage to ruin has gone.
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| But the villagers point out the spot,
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| Where the willow pours over the door.
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| Saying there Mary died once a gay village find,
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| From the wind that blew across the wild moor. |