I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps,
In a plaintive and exquisite style:
But I know I should simply and feebly collapse
In my efforts to conjure a smile.
The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace,
Would be rather too painful a sight:
With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer
Such a state of dejection as mine.