| A lonely cottage on the mound
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| A century’s work of
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| Stood trembling and quiet
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| Until it was acquired
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| By canny Joe the quilt-maker
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| He fenced in a patch of land
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| As from the stroke of a magic wand
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| A garden
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| Sprung forth
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| From the hand of Joe the quilt-maker
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| His cot secure, his flowerbeds neat
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| Glad were his neighbours all to meet
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| And chew the fat
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| And to swallow the coffee
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| Of kindly Joe the quilt-maker
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| Of each he had some good to say
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| Some friendly token to display
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| And seldom few people
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| Could cheer a winter’s day
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| Like gregarious Joe the quilt-maker
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| Beloved by all even the
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| Great
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| And at the dinner table
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| Sometimes they set a plate
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| For respected Joe the quilt-maker
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| His quilts with country fame were crowned
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| Superbly sewn and dotted around
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| With pretty little figures
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| And in flight
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| Most ingenious Joe the quilt-maker
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| His wife was sick bedridden and old
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| To ease her pain he spent he sold
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| Oh there was never bought
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| Not for silver or for gold
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| Such love as Joe the quilt-maker
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| From dawn til dusk he tenderly nursed
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| The poor old hag grew worse and worse
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| And soon
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| She was lifted to a hearse
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| By heartbroken Joe the quilt-maker
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| Lost in widowhood’s embrace
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| All hope had flown without a trace
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| The home they’d made
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| Soon become a cage
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| For enfeebled Joe the quilt-maker
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| But there were friends who cheered his days
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| Both coin and food they strove to raise
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| And there was always some kind soul
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| Dropping in to say
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| Afternoon to Joe the quilt-maker
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| The days and months and years rolled by
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| The scales were lifted from his eyes
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| The ground beneath his feet and the
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| Colour in his cheeks
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| Were restored to Joe the quilt-maker
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| Not seeing past the end of his nose
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| Back to the needle he nimbly goed
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| In several of the taverns
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| We raised a cup of ale
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| To courageous Joe the quilt-maker
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| Often in his solitary
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| Through spectacles and godly verse
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| A mirror made of paper
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| Would stare at the reflection
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| Of pious Joe the quilt-maker
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| And first he Autumn of his days
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| In quiet contemplation
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| Except when he would welcome
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| A wandering stranger
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| Most hospitable Joe the quilt-maker
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| From which dark source it cannot be said
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| Somehow the bogus rumour spread
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| That never in Hexham
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| There’d been a richer man
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| Than impoverished Joe the quilt-maker
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| Strolling round the market square
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| A smiling pilgrim unaware
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| The devil’s in the doorway
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| Of the old hall
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| With his eyes fixed on the doomed quilt-maker
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| I found a pair of clogs in the lane
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| Some drops of blood where they had lain
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| And following the breadcrumbs
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| I came upon the dreadful
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| Remains of Joe the quilt-maker
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| It must have been a number of days
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| The fat black flies were on his face
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| I fainted in a flowerbed
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| And threw up on the bright yellow
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| Poppies of Joe the quilt-maker
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| Judging from the wounds on his hands
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| It’s fair to assume a most valiant stand
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| Was met by his assailants
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| And fought out to the very last breath
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| Of Joe the quilt-maker
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| It’s thought they numbered two or three
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| The evidence was plain to see
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| And a garden hose sticky with the
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| Grey hair of Joe the quilt-maker
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| Despite a hundred Guinea reward
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| The culprits have remained uncaught
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| And nobody is looking
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| Each other in the eyes
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| At the funeral of Joe the quilt-maker
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| And now that night is drawing in
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| I pull the quilt up to my chin
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| And listen to the trees outside
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| Creaking in the wind
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| A song for Joe the quilt-maker |