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My Father was a good and pious man,
The suns of twenty summers danced along,—
He loved his old hereditary nook,
And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.
But, when he had refused the proffered gold,
To cruel injuries he became a prey,
Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:
They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried
We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.