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 “My daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
But she shall be your bride the day
You bring her back to me.”
He sailed east, he sailed west,
And far and long sailed he,
Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt sea.
“Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen,
The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!”
Out spake an ancient man, “I know
The maiden whom ye mean;
I bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.
No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,
Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite. “
So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a maiden fair,
A little basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare.
“Come hither, child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?”
They wept within each other's arms,
The page and young Kathleen.
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