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Peter Crawley
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As I rambled out one morning, It been the month of June, I strayed into an old church yard, To view another's tomb. I overheard an old man say, As the tears rolled from his eyes, "'Tis 'neath that cold cold clay today Poor Peter Crawley lies." Oh the grave where Peter Crawley lies neath the grass grown green. And underneath poor Peter sleeps, Because he loved the green. It grieves my heart to see you there, A hero once in bloom.

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