Sorrow sounds in our present rhyme.
Joy-bells change to the death-bell's chime,
Age is bitter and youth hath fled,
Gone is the season of hope sublime,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
II.
Ladies I loved in those far-off days,
Where are ye now with your golden hair?
My locks are white neath a crown of bays,
But youth's rose-crown was to me more fair.