In Other Words
(As Lord Byron might sing it, in a minor.)
Farewell! And if within that breast
Affection’s spark shall smolder still,
Fan it to flame and quench the rest,
And let the world say what it will.
Affection’s spark shall smolder still,
Fan it to flame and quench the rest,
And let the world say what it will.
Farewell! Farewell! O wintry word
That chills and numbs this aching heart —
This heart that hath so often erred,
But softens when ’tis time to part.
That chills and numbs this aching heart —
This heart that hath so often erred,
But softens when ’tis time to part.
Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! And though
This heart shall be an empty thing,
Thou canst not fathom half the woe
That lies within it when I sing.
This heart shall be an empty thing,
Thou canst not fathom half the woe
That lies within it when I sing.
Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Oh, dear,
Of all that dearest is to me,
Though Christmas comes but once a year,
My farewells come more frequently.
Of all that dearest is to me,
Though Christmas comes but once a year,
My farewells come more frequently.
(Being an attempt to get away with Thomas Moore’s manner.)
Oh, sweet is the scent of the rose in the morning,
And fresh is the flower besprinkled with dew,
But sweeter and fresher thy face is, mavourneen,
As pure as the lily and whiter of hue.
And fresh is the flower besprinkled with dew,
But sweeter and fresher thy face is, mavourneen,
As pure as the lily and whiter of hue.
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