A PARTING SONG.
319
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime;
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?
When the sudden tears overflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody;
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream;
Then let it be!
