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Updated: July 7, 2026
On Moyle's bleak current our food and wine Are sandy seaweed and bitter brine; Yet oft we feasted in days of old, And hazel-mead drank from cups of gold. Our beds are rocks in the dripping caves; Our lullaby song the roar of the waves; But soft, rich couches once we pressed, And harpers lulled us each night to rest.
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