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When I was a gallant lad,
I 'd come from my door with glee ; I 'd thrill the air with shouts of joy,
And the world would know 't was me.
Now I am a graybeard old,
I come from my door with pain,
Let me shout as loud as I may, No voice will answer again.
The petals of the white rose fall;
To-day another weds my rose. Through the wood the violins call,
And my heart shuts tight with its woes.
The shining star adorns the night, In vain for thee my heart has beat,
My star for me has quenched its light, But in my heart its ray is sweet.
At Dobreesen flowers a fair rose-tree ;
It bears a lovely perfumed rose, But what is that lovely rose worth to me,
If far beyond my reach it blows.
The young postilion is sounding his horn, He brings a letter from my dear.
But her letter of gold leaves me forlorn, Since she comes not to meet me here.
Down there under the steep hillside, A small apple-tree blooms in pride*