We had our day, and now it's over
We had our song, and now it's all sung
We took our stroll through summer's clover
But summer's gone, baby, and the walking's done.

So, tell me gently, who'll be your lover?
Who'll be your lover after I am gone?
Will it be the moon that hears your sighing?
Will it be the willow that hears your lonesome sigh?

Will it be the rain that clings to your bosom?
Will it be the sunshine that dries your golden hair?
Will it be the wind that warns of my returning?
Will the rose be in your arms when I find you waiting there?

None but the rain shall cling to my bosom
None but the moon shall hear my lonesome sighs
None but the wind shall warn of my returning
So fare thee well, my love, goodbye.

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