We had our day, but now it's over.

We had our song, but now it's sung.

We had our stroll through summer's clover, but summer's gone now, our walkin's done.

So tell me gently, who'll be your lover, who'll be your lover after I'm gone?

Will it be the moon that hears you sighing?

Will it be the willow that hears your lonesome song?

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 a 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 sigh.

None but the wind shall warn of your returning, fare thee well my love, goodbye.