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Updated: May 28, 2025
She had cheeks like th' roses, an' hair iv th' same, An' a mouth like ripe sthrawburries burrid in crame. He rocked the child to and fro, and its crying ceased while he sang: Chip, chip, a little horse; Chip, chip, again, sir. How manny miles to Dublin? Threescure an' tin, sir. The little girl went to sleep on Mr. Dooley's white apron. He lifted her tenderly, and carried her over to his bed.
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