Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough?
Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain;
Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now?
My country! In thy days of glory past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
With surmah tinge the black eye's fringe,
'Twill sparkle like a star;
Last night - it was a lovely night,
And I was very blest -
Shall it not be for Memory
A happy spot to rest?