| There came a ghost to Margaret’s door
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| With many a greivous groan
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| And aye he’s tirled long at the pin
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| But answer she gave none
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| Is it my father phillip?
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| Or yet my brother John?
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| Or yet my own dear william
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| From Scotland now come home?
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| Thy faith, I troth, you’ll never get
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| And me you’ll never win
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| Til you take me to yon churchyard
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| And wed me with the ring
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| Oh I do dwell in a churchyard
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| But far beyond the sea
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| And it is but my Ghost, Margaret
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| That speaks now unto thee
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| So she’s put on her robes of green
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| With a piece below the knee
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| And o’er the live-lang winter’s night
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| The sweet ghost followed she
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| Is there room at your head, willie
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| Or room here at your feet?
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| Or room here at your side, willie
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| Wherein that I may sleep?
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| There’s no room at my head, Margaret
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| There’s no room at my feet
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| There’s no room at my side Margaret
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| My coffin is so neat
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| Then up and spoke the red robin
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| And up spoke the grey
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| 'tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret
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| That I was gone away
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| No more the ghost to Margaret came
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| With many a greivous groan
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| He’s vanished out into the mist
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| And left her there alone
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| Oh stay, my only true love, stay
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| My heart you do divide
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| Pale grew her cheeks, she closed her eyes
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| Stretched out her limbs and cried |