| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, The highwayman comes ridingRiding ridingThe highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
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