And Patrick, too, out for a holiday,
Strolls with his Bridget here en dimanché,
And softly whispers in his charmer’s ear
The same old tale, to lovers ever dear.
The rustling leaves, the waves, the mating bird,
Sing the same songs the Indian maiden heard.
Save a few stately names, the vanished race
Whose dust we daily trample leave no trace
Or monument. None who that race have known
Ere poisoned by the vices of our own,