There’s an old, old legend, that’s whispered by Southern folks,
About the lacy Spanish moss that garlands the great oaks–
A lovely princess and her love, upon their wedding day,
Were struck down by a savage foe amidst a bitter fray;
United in death they were buried, so the legends go–
‘Neath an oak’s strong, friendly arms, protected from their foe;
There, as was the custom, they cut the bride’s long hair with love,
And hung its shining blackness on the spreading oak above;
Untouched, undisturbed, it hung there, for all the world to see
And with the years the locks turned grey, and spread from tree to tree.


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