Gayly the troubadour
Touched his guitar.
Why don’t the men propose, Mamma?
Why don’t the men propose?
She wore a wreath of roses
The first night that we met.
Friends depart, and memory takes them
To her caverns, pure and deep.
Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.
Oh pilot, ‘t is a fearful night!
There’s danger on the deep.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder:
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!
Surely ‘t is better, when summer is over
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Those that have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! naught but misery brings!