Tabitha Of The Glen Hold me, as the frigid stream flows past our blue, bare feet, As the mist hovers above the water, As the wind howls among the tussocks and reeds. Bury your head in my chest, and draw the knife, For thee will kill me, Tabitha, I know. In the cold of the Glen, you will carve my wooden heart from my bosom, And watch it float downstream. And Tabitha, oh Tabitha, The water will swirl around you, and down the stream you will follow my heart.
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