And the rich-dyed plume of the songster gay,
I have brought as a radiant prize away.
’Tis true my cheek has a dusky shade,
For the southern gale with my locks has played,
’Tis true the seasons that sped away
Have left the marks of the tell-tale gray,
And the plough of time, with a furrow now,
Has come in its turn to my sunburnt brow,
But oh! in my heart unchanged their lies
A throng of reviving memories,