| A holiday, a holiday
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| And the first one of the year
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| Lord Donald’s wife came into the church
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| The Gospel for to hear
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| And when the meeting it was done
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| She cast her eyes about
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| And there she saw little Matty Groves
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| Walking in the crowd
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| Come home with me, little Matty Groves
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| Come home with me tonight
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| Come home with me, little Matty Groves
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| And sleep with me 'til light
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| Oh, I can’t come home, I won’t come home
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| And sleep with you tonight
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| By the rings on your fingers
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| I can tell you are Lord Donald’s wife
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| But if I am Lord Donald’s wife
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| Lord Donald’s not at home
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| He is out in the far cornfields
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| Bringing the yearnings home
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| And a servant who was standing by
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| And hearing what was said
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| He swore Lord Donald he would know
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| Before the sun would set
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| And in his hurry to carry the news
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| He bent his breast and ran
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| And when he came to the broad mill stream
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| He took off his shoes and he swam
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| Little Matty Groves, he lay down
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| And took a little sleep
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| When he awoke, Lord Donald
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| Was standing at his feet
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| Saying, «How do you like my feather bed
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| And how do you like my sheets
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| How do you like my lady
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| Who lies in your arms asleep?»
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| Oh, well, I like your feather bed
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| And well, I like your sheets
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| But better I like your lady gay
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| Who lies in my arms asleep
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| «Well, get up, get up», Lord Donald cried
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| «Get up as quick as you can
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| It’ll never be said in fair England
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| I slew a naked man»
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| Oh, I can’t get up, I won’t get up
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| I can’t get up for my life
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| For you have two long beaten swords
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| And I not a pocket knife
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| Well, it’s true I have two beaten swords
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| And they cost me deep in the purse
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| But you will have the better of them
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| And I will have the worse
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| And you will strike the very first blow
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| And strike it like a man
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| I will strike the very next blow
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| And I’ll kill you if I can
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| So Matty struck the very first blow
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| And he hurt Lord Donald sore
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| Lord Donald struck the very next blow
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| And Matty struck no more
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| And then Lord Donald he took his wife
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| And he sat her on his knee
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| Saying, «Who do you like the best of us
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| Matty Groves or me?»
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| And then up spoke his own dear wife
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| Never heard to speak so free
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| «I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty’s lips
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| Than you or your finery»
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| Lord Donald, he jumped up
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| And loudly he did bawl
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| He struck his wife right through the heart
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| And pinned her against the wall
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| «A grave, a grave», Lord Donald cried
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| «To put these lovers in
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| But bury my lady at the top
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| For she was of noble kin» |