John Byrom

Christians awake, salute the happy morn
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born.

Christians awake, salute the happy morn
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born.

A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
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My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of; that they made before:
In fact I must not lead the life I did do.