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The Last Rose of Summer

words: Thomas Moore; music: trad. Irish


Tis the last rose of summer
left blooming alone.
All her lovely companions
are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
no rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes
or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee thou lone one
pine on the stem,
Since the lovely are sleeping,
go sleep thou with them.
Thus fondly I scatter
thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow
when friendships decay,
And from lovelys shining circle
the gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
and fond ones are flown,
Oh, who would inhabit
this bleak world alone?