Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. She opened her eyes. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. ‘There you have soldiers. She would end alone.
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