| When Eve was in the garden,
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| She plucked an apple fair.
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| She pressed it into Cider,
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| And gaver her mate his share.
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| Then anger split the heavens,
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| And they walked away in shame.
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| And still I sit in exile,
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| No scrumpy to my name.
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| The night tis' dark before the dawn.
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| Take heart,
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| The lonely Cider drinker marches on!
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| And the dogs of prohibition,
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| Their voices dark and shrill.
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| Denied our ancient birth-right,
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| And torched the Cider mills.
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| They banished from the new world,
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| What belongs to you and me.
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| The drinks of nature’s apples,
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| from the finest of her trees.
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| From Ash Cuttler,
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| and the (inaudible),
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| to the mighty Jamer Ford.
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| We trace this noble heritage
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| to (inaudible).
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| Now some may fight for silver,
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| And some may fight for land.
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| For scrumpy’s sake,
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| The Cider punk makes his final stand.
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| The night tis' dark before the dawn.
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| Take heart,
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| The Lonely Cider Drinker Marches on.
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| So come you lads and lasses,
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| Put down that wretched broom!
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| (inaudible)
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| And seek your real cider,
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| And set aside the rest.
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| Untill the day that golden sun,
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| Comes rising in the west.
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| The Night tis' dark before the dawn,
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| Take heart,
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| The lonely Cider drinker marches on.
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| Oh where,
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| has all the scrumpy gone?
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| Take heart,
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| The Lonely Cider Drinker Marches on! |