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The maid on her lover Looks down with disdainFor the ties that had bound them I had severed in twain.
The pride of man's heart, Her music and song,Is turned into wailing As I entered the throng.
The voice of his children, As they sport in the dale,At the sound of the revel Is swept from the vale.
But I felt my influence Begin to decay,When the cold water army Was set in array.
But her ranks are so broken Her chieftains are fled,That I've taken fresh courage And hold up my head.
