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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * (To an old air) ‘O I won’t lead a homely life As father’s Jack and mother’s Jill, But I will be a fiddler’s wife, With music mine at will! Just a little tune, Another one soon, As I merrily fling my fill!’ And she became a fiddler’s Dear, And merry all day she strove to be; And he played and played afar and near, But never at home played he Any little tune Or late or soon; And sunk and sad was she! Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1328 |
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