Rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
and down will come baby, cradle and all.
Baby is drowsing, cosy and fair.
Mother sits near, in her rocking chair.
Forward and back, the cradle she swings.
And though the baby sleeps,
he hears what she sings.
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