| A furnace bellowed from the range
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| To scorch the winters chill
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| And the Spirit of Cyndyllan
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| Who hailed from Grongar Hill
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| True west he strode, through Cilsane Ford
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| Down by the water mill
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| For a pint then, at the Ship in Laugharne
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| Two thousand years to kill
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| He’s got two thousand years to kill
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| Dogs-Eyes, Owl Meat and Man-Chop
|
| Half an ounce of shag, and a pint of Buckleys Top
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| Bible black, Captain Cat, where time and tide stand still
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| Like the Ghosts of Aberglasney, the mists of Grongar Hill
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| The mists of Grongar Hill
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| From Carreg-Cennen Castle to Paxton Tower Hill
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| In fields all by the Roman roads
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| The scene of bad blood spilled
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| From Twm o’r Gof to Golden Grove
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| And through the Towy Vale
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| Flows the lifeblood of the county
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| A shade of Nut-brown ale, a shade of Nut-brown ale
|
| Dogs-Eyes, Owl Meat and Man-Chop
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| Dress them for the window, then splice them on the block
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| Bible black, Captain Cat, enjoy and drink your fill
|
| To the Ghosts of Aberglasney, the mists of Grongar Hill
|
| The mists of Grongar Hill
|
| Merlins seat lies empty, it’s written in the gaol
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| If the old oak tree is severed, this town be doomed to fail
|
| Latter day invaders come, build homes devoid of charm
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| «There's bugger all» cried Dylan
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| «I'll linger down in Laugharne
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| I’ll linger down in Laugharne» |