Lyrics:
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You ask me to sing and I'll sing you a song
Of how in the marshes we all get along:
Bohemians and Irish, Yankees and Dutch.
In the cranberry bogs you will find the whole clutch.
Chorus:
Did you ever go down to the cranberry bogs?
Some of the houses are hewn out of logs.
The walls, they are board, sawn from the pine
That grows in the country called the cranberry clime.
When the hay it is cut, and the wheat it is stacked
Cranberries ripen, our old clothes we'll pack
And away to the marshes to rake we will go
And dance to the music of fiddle and bow.
Chorus
Then it's all down to Mercer our tickets to buy
And to all our families we will say goodbye;
For fun and for profit our plan's to resign
For three or four weeks in the cranberry clime.
Chorus
All day in the marshes, our rakes we will pull.
We feel the best when our boxes are full.
In the evening we'll dance 'til we're all dried out
And wish the cranberries would never give out.
Chorus
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