Oh! yes, I will own we were dear
The friendships of childhood, thou
The love which you felt was the lo
Nor less the affection I cherish’
But Friendship can vary her gentl

Away with your fictions of flimsy
Those tissues of falsehood which
Give me the mild beam of the soul—
Or the rapture which dwells on the
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fant

Start not’—nor deem my spirit fled
In me behold the only skull
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaffed like

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden
In you let the minions of luxury r
Restore me to the rocks, where the
Though still they are sacred to fr
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy m

There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o’er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave
For them is Sorrow’s purest sigh