When, round the bowl, of vanished years We talk, with joyous seeming,— With smiles, that might as well be tears So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles then To those we’ve left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we’ve left behind us!
As travellers oft look back, at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,— So, when the close of pleasure’s day To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that’s left behind us.
T. Moore.
[ A RED, RED ROSE]
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O, my luve’s like the melodie That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.