The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
I, II. |
III, IV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
V. |
1. |
2. |
LONG YEARS HAVE PASS'D. |
VI, VII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
VIII, IX. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
X. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||
310
LONG YEARS HAVE PASS'D.
Long years have pass'd, old friend, since we
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropp'd away;—
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropp'd away;—
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.
Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flow'rs 'mid Autumn's snow,
Retain youth's colour still.
And so, in our hearts, though one by one,
Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heav'n, not all their light is gone,—
We've some to cheer us yet.
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flow'rs 'mid Autumn's snow,
Retain youth's colour still.
And so, in our hearts, though one by one,
Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heav'n, not all their light is gone,—
We've some to cheer us yet.
311
Then here's to thee, old friend, and long
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let's never, old friend, forget,
Ev'n while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let's never, old friend, forget,
Ev'n while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||