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A Woman's Hands Are Warm
For Hands Of Gold
She Was His Shame
He Rode Through The
Streets Of The City
And His Bliss - And A Chain
Down From His Hill On High
O'er The Wynds And
Are Always Cold But
And A Keep Are Nothing
The Steps And The Cobbles
He Rode To A Woman's Sigh
Compared To A Woman's Kiss
For She Was
His Secret Treasure
