| A holiday, a holiday
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| The first one of the year
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| Lord Arnold’s wife came into the church
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| The gospel for to hear
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| And when the meeting it was done
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| She cast her eyes about
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| And there she saw little Matty Groves
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| Walking in the crowd
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| «Come home with me
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| Little Matty Groves
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| Come home with me tonight
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| Come home with me, little Matty Groves
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| And sleep with me till light.»
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| «Oh I can’t come home and
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| I won’t go home
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| And sleep with you tonight
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| By the rings on your fingers I can see
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| That you are my master’s wife.»
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| «And what if I’m Lord Arnold’s wife
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| For he is not at home
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| He is out in the far country
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| Bringing the yearlings home.»
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| So little Matty Groves, he lay down
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| And took a little sleep
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| When he awoke Lord Arnold
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| He was standing by his feet
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| Saying «How do you like my feather bed
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| And how do you like my sheets?
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| How do you like my lady wife
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| Who lies in your arms asleep?»
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| «Oh well, I like your feather bed
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| Better I like your sheets
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| Best of all I like your lady gay
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| Who lies in my arms asleep.»
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| «Get up! |
| Get up!» |
| Lord Arnold cried
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| «Get up as quick as you can
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| Let it never be said in fair England
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| That I slew a naked man.»
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| «Oh I won’t get up and I won’t get up
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| I can’t get up for my life
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| For you have two long beaten swords
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| And I not a pocket knife.»
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| «Well it’s true I have two beaten swords
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| And they cost me deep in the purse
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| But you will have the better of them
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| And I will have the worse.»
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| So Matty struck the very first blow
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| And he hurt Lord Arnold sore
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| Lord Arnold struck the very next blow
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| And Matty struck up the floor
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| And then he took his own dear wife
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| And sat her down on his knee
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| Saying «who do you like the best of us now
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| Your dead Matty Groves or me?»
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| And then spoke up his own dear wife
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| Never heard her speak so free
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| «I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty’s lips
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| Than you or your finery»
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| And then Lord Arnold he jumped up
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| And loudly did he bawl
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| He struck his wife right through the heart
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| And pinned her up to the wall
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| «Oh a grave, a grave», Lord Arnold cried
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| «to put these lovers in
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| Won’t you bury my lady at the top
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| For she was a noble kin |