Stephen Foster, 1856
Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie,|
Like a flow'r thy spirit did depart;
Thou art gone, alas! like the many
That have bloomed in the summer of my heart.
Shall we never more behold thee;
Never hear thy winning voice again
When the Springtime comes gentle Annie,
When the wild flow'rs are scattered o'er the plain?
2. We have roamed and loved mid the bowers,|
When thy downy cheeks were in their bloom;
Now I stand alone mid the flowers
While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb.
3. Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
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