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I grew up on the side of Clinch Mountain,
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with the beauties and the music of the woods,
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the sweet song of the bright bubbling fountain,
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and the warble of the birds I understood.
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When I've sung my last song in the evening,
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and the sun sets in the golden west,
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all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
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in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
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Long ago said the oak and the cedar,
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singing deeply in a whisper of the past,
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stood not then this great towering leader,
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nor the fountain where the crystal gems are cast.
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When I've sung my last song in the evening,
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and the sun sets in the golden west,
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all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
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in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
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Then I asked how this green lofty mountain
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in the caldron the lonely desert stood,
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said this song of the bright sunny fountain,
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we were given by the waters of the flood.
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When I've sung my last song in the evening,
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and the sun sets in the golden west,
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all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
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in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
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Out that gate I have passed since my childhood,
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o'er the railway through the tunnel to the west,
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singing songs of the Clinch Mountain wildwood,
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songs that people found and birds love the best.