The Dear Old Air (From the Irish)

Misfortune's train may chase our joys,
But not our love;
And I those pensive looks will prize.
The smiles of joy above:
Your tender looks of love shall still
Delight and console;
Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill
Beyond your love's control.

Of troubles past we will not speak.
Or future woe:
Nor mark, thus leaning cheek to cheek.
The stealing tear-drops flow:
But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air,
Soothing and low.
You loved so well when, gay as fair,
You won me long ago