We leave your happy bowers.
Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'er
We meet, we meet no more!
Forever now to human converse lost,
On Moyle's wild waters tost,
Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail,
To weave a mournful tale.
Three lingering ages on the northern main
To waste in various pain.
Three lingering ages in the stormy west