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Gentle Annie
par
Eric Bogle
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Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie Like a flow'r thy spirit did depart; Thou art gone, alas! like the many That have bloomed in the summer of my heart Shall we never more behold thee; Never hear thy winning voice again When the Springtime comes gentle Annie When the wild flow'rs are scattered o'er the plain? We have roamed and loved mid thе bowers When thy downy cheeks werе in their bloom; Now I stand alone mid the flowers While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder Near the silent spot where thou art laid And my heart bows down when I wander By the streams and the meadows where we stray'd Stephen Foster, 1856
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