When will ye think of me my friend? When will ye think of me? When the rose of the rich mid-summer time Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime— When ye gather its bloom as in bright hours fled From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread- Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you friends! Thus ever think of me! Kindly and gently, but as of one For whom tis well to be fled and gone— As of a bird from a chain unbound, As of a wanderer whose home is found– So let it be!