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He wooed her long and so tenderlee. And, day by day, as their fond love grew, Her spinning wheel stood with its threads askew; It stood. It stood. It stood with its threads askew. A maid there was in the North Countree; A sad little, lone little maid was she. Her knight seemed fickle and all untrue As he rode to war at the drummer's dree.
It was hardly sung; it was whispered, as if she feared that even the fairies and sprites might be eavesdropping; but, had she lilted it in her heart only, still, I think, I should have heard it. A maid there was in the North Countree; A gay little, blythe little maid was she. Her dream of a gallant knight came true. He wooed her long and so tenderlee.
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