The sighing of the autumn leaves,
And singing of the Fountain's babble!
How quick my thoughts drift back again
To those bright happy days at Hurley—
A pleasure strongly dashed with pain—
(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)
But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand—
The oak you know, my love, was sported—
And all the speeches, understand,
Were much too good to be reported.