It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul — W. S. Gilbert

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On a tree by a river a little tomtit Sang “Willow,

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It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.