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Like the Swallow

de Saint Etienne

She's like the swallow
That flies so high.
She's like the river
That never runs dry.
She's like the sunshine on the lea-shore,
I love my love, and love is no more.

It's out of roses
She made her bed.
A stolen pillow
For her head.
She's like the sunshine on the lea-shore,
I love my love, and love is no more.

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