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More from Thomas Haynes Bayly

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!

I 'd be a Butterfly.

Gayly the troubadour
Touched his guitar.

Welcome me Home.

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.

She wore a Wreath.