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The Maid Of
Llanwellyn
I've no sheep on the mountains nor boat on the
lake
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Rich Owen will tell you with eyes full of scorn
Threadbare is my coat and my hosen are torn
Scoff on my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on
me.
The farmer rides proudly to market and fair
And the clerk at the ale house still claims the
great chair
But of all our proud fellows, the proudest I'll
be
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on
me.
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