I tell my Russian friend that it was no compatriot of his
who composed Those Evening Bells,
but Tom Moore of Aungier Street,
in the age of gracious living, opulence and epaulettes.
Since then his Minstrel Boy has died a thousand deaths,
the last rose long ago lost its petals,
but the melodies linger on,
live at JJ's, on the spot where Moore was born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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