Stephen Foster, 1853
The morn of life is past, and evening comes at last,|
It brings me a dream of a once happy day,
Of merry forms I've seen upon the village green
A-sporting with my old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray's ever faithful,
Grief cannot drive him away.
He's gentle, he is kind,
I'll never, never find
A better friend than old dog Tray.
2. The forms I call'd my own have vanished one by one,|
The loved ones, the dear ones have all pass'd away;
Their happy smiles have flown, their gentle voices gone;
I've nothing left but old dog Tray.
3. When thoughts recall the past, his eyes are on me cast,
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