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Geordie, Geordie, I count you true,
Though language sweet I have none for you.
Nay, but take me home to the churning mill
When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill
Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil.
For what's to be done-what's to be done?
Of three that woo I must e'en take one,
Or there's no sense in it under the sun,
And
What's to be done-what's to be done?
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