The shutters are cracked and dry now,
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And the roof lets the rain seep in;
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The old four walls are ready to fall,
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And the sign reads, "This House Condemned."
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Once a mighty plantation,
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When a nation was at war;
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When mothers prayed for sons that went away,
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And cried for ones that came back no more.
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But oh, if this house could talk, Lord,
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Of Dixieland's final days;
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Before they tear her down, before she hits the ground,
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I'll bet this is what she would say:
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Early on one frosty morn, they raised my timbers and I was born;
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Lord, I remember the day;
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The mighty oak became my soul, the Delta dawn kept me from the cold,
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Lord, Lord, look away.
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I've seen history, Robert E. Lee, and Johnny Reb hold his head up high;
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They can tear me down, down, down,
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But Dixieland, you will never die.
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The garden gate is rusty,
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And the well's dusty and dry;
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The magnolia trees are swayin' in the breeze,
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As if to hang their heads and cry.
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The ballroom is quiet and empty,
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Where the bands once used to play;
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And the battlefields are resting and still,
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With the ghosts of the blue and the gray.
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This house has seen it all, Lord,
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As time kept marching on;
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But I'll bet these walls can recall
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A story all their own.
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I've seen King Cotton touch the sky, and riverboats floatin' by,
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On their way to New Orleans;
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I've bowed with people standin' tall, with their backs pushed up
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against the wall,
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Getting' by on hopes and dreams.
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I've seen southern belles, gents, and full grown men bow their heads and cry,
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They can tear me down, down, down,
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But Dixieland, you will never die.
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Dixieland, you will never die.
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Dixieland You Will Never Die
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Lynn Anderson |