The river stands there flowing, and there’s a whistle on the breeze,
The birds about me calling, soaring to the seas
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Beyond the trees and mountain tops, out farther than you know,
There’s a place called Wimbledon, where few will ever go
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Majestic, mighty, Wimbledon, who’s waves are made of gold,
And up here in our village many tales are told
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Some say on a starry night, when everything stands quiet and calm,
Majestic, mighty, Wimbledon commences in a song
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The birds, the breeze, a melody, a tune of nature’s talk,
It blesses precious few, who in its presence walk
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