I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; 'T is that I can't remember how They go.

I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! To be young once more and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told *Not to thy credit!