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The tired cars go grumbling by,

The moaning, groaning cars,

And the old milk carts go rumbling by

Under the same dull stars.

Out of the tenements, cold as stone,

Dark figures start for work;

I watch them sadly shuffle on,

'Tis dawn, dawn in New York.

But I would be on the island of the sea,

In the heart of the island of the sea,

Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,

And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,

Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing

Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,

And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,

And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,

And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling