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THE SKY-LARK. 217
Your pipe, says I, Paddy, so neatly comes over me,
Naked, I'll wander wherever it blows,
And if my father should try to recover me,
Sure it wont be by describing my clothes.
The music I hear now, takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over the world by the nose,
So I follow'd his bagpipe so sweet,
And sung, as I leapt like a frog,
Adieu to my family seat,
So pleasantly plac'd in a bog.
With my faralla, &c.
Full rive years I follow'd him, nothing could sunder
us,
Till he one morning had taken a sup,
And slipp'd from a bridge in a river just under us,
Souse to the bottom, just like a blind pup.
I roar'd out, and bawl'd out, and hastily call'd out,
O Paddy, my friend, don't you mean to come up?
He was dead as a nail, in a door,
Poor Paddy was laid on the shelf,
So I took up his pipes on the shore,
And now I've set up for myself.
With my faralla, laralla loo, to be sure I have not got
the knack,
To play faralla laralla loo, aye, and bubberoo didderoo
whack.

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