Lag: Max Vogrich.  Ljóð: Thomas Moore

‘Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flow`r of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems droop away.
When true hearts lie wither`d
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone.