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HOW many years, how many years have fled, Since in the cool dim parlour sat the three— Lawson and I and, lounging easily, The beaming indolent poet! Then instead Of labouring weary at the mill, we led The careless life of wanderers, frank and free, And had the wealth of a new-found world in fee: How pitiless time gropes on with tireless tread!
A glass was raised, and golden liquor glowed |