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The cuckoo and the skylark are pouring forth their song.
In pastures green and lush the white lambs skip and jump.
The bustling beaver builds his dam across a bubbling brook.
The jockey gives his nag a lash to urge him faster on.
A bell tolls: a mournful bell.
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The sun is young and strong, ablaze, bright, flushed with triumph.
At night the moon puts on as good a show.
While stars like jewels in sceptres set in clusters twinkle.
Bats flitter to and fro, owls hoot, sly foxes prowl.
A bell tolls: a baleful bell.
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The hearts of youths go pit-a-pat when wenches bare the leg.
And bashful maidens blanch or blush when wooers wink their eye.
The hills resound, the valleys boom, the hornets buzz, the flowers bloom.
The sap rises in the trees, the pollen specks are wafted on the breeze.
A bell tolls: a doleful bell.
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In Berlin sits a Prize ripe for the plucking.
In Hamburg, Frankfurt, Stuttgart hopes are high.
In Paris not a cloud disturbs the sky.
In Rome, Milan, Turin none’s heard to cry.
A bell tolls: a rueful bell.
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Does any German question Klinsmann’s cunning?
Can Slayers of Brazil be short on skill?
What Portuguese fears bridges yet to cross?
What cause have they to weep who’ve borne no loss?
A bell tolls: a wistful bell.
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Such blessed souls, still free to dream their dreams.
To work out tactics, strategies, plans, schemes.
To fantasise that on July the ninth,
The Trophy will be lifted by their Team.
A bell tolls: an English bell.