And some have bowed beneath the scythe
Of death; while others, scattered far,
O'er foreign lands at fate repine,
Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star,
To muse on dear Langsyne!
Langsyne!—the heart can never be
Again so full of guileless truth—
Langsyne! the eyes no more shall see,
Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
Langsyne! with thee resides a spell