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    Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
    (Asked the stranger on the black steed.)
    Over the hills and far away
    Where hearts are light as the blossoming May.

    When will you reach there, my pretty girl?
    (Asked the stranger from under his cowl.)
    Before the sun is all burnt out
    And winter comes?
Without a doubt.

    Do you know your road, then, my pretty lass?
    (Asked the stranger.) Along the green grass
    I follow the butterfly, rise with the lark
    And lay me down in the woods at dark.

    What is your provender, my pretty one?
    (Asked the stranger, ambling on.)
    Milk and honey, nuts, apples and wine,
    Candied sugar and fruits of the vine.

    Who will you travel with, my pretty maid?
    (Asked the stranger, dark was his plaid.)
    With whomsoever I meet on the way
    I'll walk for as long as I wish to stay;

    But with you I'll part and soon be gone.
    We'll meet again ere the journey's done.
    (Whispered the stranger, under his breath.
    White was his skin and his name was Death.)

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