Some lie beneath the churchyard stone

I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by,— The mirth of its December And the warmth of its July.

She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

And oh! I shall find how, day by day, All thoughts and things look older; How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, And the heart of friendship colder.

Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I’m sure he’s a talented man.

John Bull was beat at Waterloo! They’ll swear to that in France.

His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings.