down by the oak,
the twited old oak,
lost spirits now mutter ,
where live people once spoke,
not only they talk ,
but they dance and they sing,
praising the oak,
as if it were a king,
they stay by the oak,
they've no choice,
they are bound,
so they dance there today,
lonley pattern all round,
oh how cruel fate is ,
how sorley forlorn,
that these spirits will dance,
untill gabriels horn.
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