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  • 作曲 : Traditional
    On Raglan Road
    on an Autumn Day,
    I saw her first and knew
    That her dark hair
    would weave a snare
    that I might one day rue.
    I saw the danger,
    and I passed
    Along the enchanted way
    And I said let grief be a falling leaf
    At the dawning of the day.
    On Grafton Street in November,
    We tripped lightly along the ledge
    Of a deep ravine where can be seen
    The worst of passions pledged.
    The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts
    And I not making hay,
    oh I loved too much;and by such, by such
    Is happiness thrown away.

    I gave her gifts of the mind.
    I gave her the secret sign
    That's known to the artists who have Known
    the true Gods of Sound and stone.
    and word and tint without a stint.
    I gave her poems to say
    With her own name there and her own dark hair
    Like the clouds over fields of May.
    On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
    I see her walking now
    away from me,
    So hurriedly.
    My reason must allow,
    That I have loved,
    not as I should
    A creature made of clay.
    When the angel woos the playing loose
    here's wings at the dawn of day.
  • 作曲 : Traditional
    On Raglan Road
    on an Autumn Day,
    I saw her first and knew
    That her dark hair
    would weave a snare
    that I might one day rue.
    I saw the danger,
    and I passed
    Along the enchanted way
    And I said let grief be a falling leaf
    At the dawning of the day.
    On Grafton Street in November,
    We tripped lightly along the ledge
    Of a deep ravine where can be seen
    The worst of passions pledged.
    The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts
    And I not making hay,
    oh I loved too much;and by such, by such
    Is happiness thrown away.

    I gave her gifts of the mind.
    I gave her the secret sign
    That's known to the artists who have Known
    the true Gods of Sound and stone.
    and word and tint without a stint.
    I gave her poems to say
    With her own name there and her own dark hair
    Like the clouds over fields of May.
    On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
    I see her walking now
    away from me,
    So hurriedly.
    My reason must allow,
    That I have loved,
    not as I should
    A creature made of clay.
    When the angel woos the playing loose
    here's wings at the dawn of day.