When the Glare of Day Is Past

When the glare of day is past,
And dim twilight comes at last,
O! how sweet with thee to stray,
On the banks of Tay
There we hear lone Philomel
Wake her tuneful powers,
'Tis of love her warblings tell,
Love not blest as ours.

Still, we love her tones of woe,
More than strains that livelier flow,
Hearts where real passion sighs,
All that's plaintive prize.
Never on true lover's brow,
Smiles mirth's heartless madness,
Hearts enamour'd deeply know,
What's the charm of sadness.

Yes my love, such hearts as ours,
Joy not in the laughing bowers,
Where proud tapers gild the night,
And gay crowds invite—
But at twilight's last, faint gleam
Scorning glittering folly,
We enjoy on Tay's lone stream
Love, and Melancholy—