We'll journey then to Scotland, to a misty rockbound coast. And if we listen to the bleak seawind, we'll surely hear the knell Of a phantom church bell tolling for a long dead pirate's ghost, That wanders still the headland, listening for the Inchcape bell. A horse drawn carriage waiting near a lake that's frozen over. The snow is falling gently in the wood that's dark and deep. But we have no time to tarry, this is just a short stopover, For we have things to do, and miles to go before we sleep.

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