By Robin Williamson
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Robin Williamson: Chanter, bironne, chinese flute, jew's harp, bazooki, gong and vocal.
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In the third part of the year
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when men begin to gather fuel against the
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coming cold
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hear hoover ring hard on frosty ground
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begins our song
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for centuries we lived alone high on the moors
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herding the deer for milk and cheese for leather
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and horn
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humans came seldom nigh
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for we with our spells held them at bay
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and they with gifts of wine and grain did
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honour us
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returning at evening from the great mountains
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out red hoods ring with bells lightly we run
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until before our own green hill
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there we did stand
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she is stolen
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she is snatched away
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through watery meads straying our lovely
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daughter
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she of the wild eyes
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she of the wild hair
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snatched up to the saddle of the lord of Weir
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who has his castle high upon a crag
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a league away
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upon the horse of air at once we rode
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to where Weir's castle lifts like a crippled claw
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into the moon
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and taking form of minstrels brightly clad
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we paced upon white ponies to the gate
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and rang thereon
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"we come to sing unto my lord of Weir
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a merry song."
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into his sorry hall we stepped
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where was our daughter bound near his chair
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"come play a measure!"
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"sir at once we will!"
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and we began to sing and play
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to lightly dance in rings and faster turn
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no man within that hall could keep his seat
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but needs must dance and leap
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against his will
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this was the way we danced them to the door
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and sent them on their way into the world
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where they will leap amain
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till they think one kind thought
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for all I know they may be dancing still
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while we returned with our own
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into our hall
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and entering in
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made fast
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the grassy door.
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The Dancing of the Lord of Weir
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Robin Williamson |