Oh, many a time in the silent night

I sigh for the days gone by,

When a happy boy with gay delight

I hailed the cuckoo’s cry.

And the dear old woods that I loved so well,

Where the stock-dove built its nest;

The rippling stream and the hermit’s cell,

Its green and shady crest.

The stately home ’neath the elms so tall,

The lawn with its cool bright turf;

The old peach tree by the garden wall,

Each has its own sweet worth.

For my head is bent with the weight of years,

As white as the falling snow;

My stream of life through this vale of tears

Will soon have ceased to flow.