< Page:Lyrical Ballads (Coleridge).djvu
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No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray.
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
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