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The Son
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The Son

I heard an old farm-wife,
   Selling some barley,
Mingle her life with life
   And the name "Charley".

Saying, "The crop's all in,
   We're about through now;
Long nights will soon begin,
   We're just us two now.

Twelve bushels at sixty cents,
   It's all I carried --
He sickened making fence;
   He was to be married --

It feels like frost was near --
   His hair was curly.
The spring was late that year,
   But the harvest early."

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