Over there in that country graveyard
Where few wild, wild flowers are lain
Over there they lay over my little sister
Over there lay my small, sad sister ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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