Since Last I Saw That Countenance So Mild, Slow-Stealing Age, And A Faint Line Of Care, Had Gently Touched, Methought, Some Features There; Yet Looked The Man As Placid As A Child, And The Same Voice, Whilst Mingled With The Throng, Unknowing, And Unknown, We Passed Along, That Voice, A Share Of The Brief Time Beguiled! That Voice I Ne'er May Hear Again, I Sighed At Parting, Wheresoe'Er Our Various Way, In This Great World, But From The Banks Of Tweed, As Slowly Sink The Shades Of Eventide, Oh! I Shall Hear The Music Of His Reed, Far Off, And Thinking Of That Voice, Shall Say, A Blessing Rest Upon Thy Locks Of Gray!