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"Give me my little milking pail, For under the hawthorn in the vale The cows are gathering one by one, They know the time by the westering sun. Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain, Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale; Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen! I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
Moelen and Trodwen, and Beauty and Blodwen, I'll meet you all with my milking pail." Meanwhile at home in the thatched cottage on the moor Sara seemed to have caught the mantle of sadness which had fallen from the girl's shoulders.
Troodie! come up from the dale; Moelen and Corwen, and Blodwen and Trodwen, I'll meet you all with my milking-pail!" The echo of it brought a pleased smile to the old man's lips, as he neared his home and left the clear singing behind him. The day had broadened to noontide, and had passed into late afternoon, when Gethin Owens once more crept round the Cribserth.
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