  I have sung my last song, and am ready To go at the dying of day; Ere the gloom of night comes to sadden, My feet shall have passed away. No more when you meet at the twilight Shall I mingle my voice with the strains That tell of home, of love, and heaven, And the past with its pleasures and pains. And when again you are carolling The old songs I love so well, Will you steal a thought for the absent, For the one who is saying farewell? Or must I then, too, be forgotten When my voice shall be nevermore heard? Will regret ne’er trouble thy bosom, Nor memory ever be stirred? Sing on, happy hearts, in the gloaming; Sing of home, and of heaven, and love; Heed not the feet that have wandered Far away, like the voice of a dove. An echo I hear sweetly tender, That seems ever to whisper to me Of a meeting of friends long severed, In a life made all perfect and free. |
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