Tavern
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'll keep a little tavernBelow the high hill's crest,Wherein all grey-eyed peopleMay set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty,And mugs to melt the chillOf all the grey-eyed peopleWho happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller,And dream his journey's end,But I will rouse at midnightThe falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy--But all the good I knowWas taught me out of two grey eyesA long time ago.
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