The Roundelay Poem by Anne Hunter

FORGET, forget the playful time,
Let every trace be done away,
When I with many an idle rhyme
Was wont to waste the summer's day.
Then hope was new, and love was young,
And fancy on her poet smil'd,
And as my roundelay I sung
The cares of life my song beguil'd.

Now hope is fled, the heart grows cold,
And fancy wears a cypress crown;
The roundelay grows dull and old,
And all the gay delights are flown.
Forget, forget the playful time, &c. &c.