Text

Translations

An den Mond, D. 193

Franz Schubert (1797-1828) 

Text by Ludwig Christoph Heinrich Hölty (1748-1776) 

Geuss, lieber Mond, geuss deine

Silberflimmer
Durch dieses Buchengrün,
Wo Phantasien und Traumgestalten
Immer vor mir vorüberfliehn.
 
Enthülle dich, dass ich die Stätte finde,
Wo oft mein Mädchen sass,
Und oft, im Wehn des Buchbaums und der Linde,
Der goldnen Stadt vergass.
 
Enthülle dich, dass ich des Strauchs mich freue,
Der Kühlung ihr gerauscht,
Und einen Kranz auf jeden Anger streue,
Wo sie den Bach belauscht.
 
Dann, lieber Mond, dann nimm den Schleier wieder,
Und traur um deinen Freund,
Und weine durch den Wolkenflor hernieder,
Wie dein Verlassner weint!
 

To The Moon
 English translation © Richard Wigmore
 

 Beloved moon, shed your silver radiance 
 

through these green beeches,
 where fancies and dreamlike images 
 forever flit before me.

Unveil yourself, that I may find the spot
where my beloved sat, where often,
in the swaying branches of the beech and lime,
she forgot the gilded town.
 
Unveil yourself, that I may delight in the whispering
bushes that cooled her,
and lay a wreath on that meadow
where she listened to the brook.
 
Then, beloved moon, take your veil once more,
and mourn for your friend.

Weep down through the hazy clouds,
as the one you have forsaken weeps.

Versunken, D. 715

Franz Schubert (1797-1828) 
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) 
 
Voll Locken kraus ein Haupt so rund! –
Und darf ich dann in solchen reichen Haaren 
Mit vollen Händen hin und wider fahren,
Da fühl’ ich mich von Herzensgrund gesund.

 
Und küss ich Stirne, 

Bogen, Auge, 

Mund, 
Dann bin ich frisch und immer wieder wund. 

Der fünfgezackte Kamm, 

wo sollt’ er stocken? 
Er kehrt schon wieder zu den Locken.
Das Ohr versagt sich nicht dem Spiel,
So zart zum Scherz, so liebeviel!

Doch wie man auf dem Köpfchen kraut,
Man wird in solchen reichen Haaren
Für ewig auf und nieder fahren.
Voll Locken kraus ein Haupt so rund.
 

Rapt Absorption
English translation © Richard Wigmore
 

A head so round, so full of curly locks!
And when I am allowed to fill my hands
with this abundant hair, and run them to and fro, 

then I feel good from the depths of my heart. And when I kiss her forehead, 

eyebrows, eyes and mouth I am afflicted afresh and ever again. 

This five-toothed comb, 

where should it stop? 
Already it returns to your curls.

The ear,
too, cannot refrain from joining in the game;
so delicate it is in playful dalliance, so full of love! 
But he who fondles this little head
will, in such abundant hair,
move his hands up and down forever.
A head so round, so full of curly locks!

Die Nacht Op. 10, No. 3​​

Richard Strauss (1864-1949) 

Text by Hermann von Gilm (1812-1864) 
 
 Aus dem Walde tritt die Nacht,
 Aus den Bäumen schleicht sie leise,
 Schaut sich um in weitem Kreise,
 Nun gib Acht!
 
 Alle Lichter dieser Welt,
 Alle Blumen, alle Farben
 Löscht sie aus und stiehlt die Garben
 Weg vom Feld.
 
 Alles nimmt sie, was nur hold,
 Nimmt das Silber weg des Stroms
 Nimmt vom Kupferdach des Doms
 Weg das Gold.
 
 Ausgeplündert steht der Strauch:
 Rücke näher, Seel’ an Seele,
 O die Nacht, mir bangt, sie stehle
 Dich mir auch.
 

Night
 English translation © Richard Stokes
 

 Night steps from the woods,
 Slips softly from the trees,
 Gazes about her in a wide arc,
 Now beware!
 
 All the lights of this world,
 All the flowers, all the colours
 She extinguishes and steals the sheaves
 From the field.
 
 She takes all that is fair,
 Takes the silver from the stream,
 Takes from the cathedral’s copper roof
 The gold.
 
 The bush stands plundered:
 Draw closer, soul to soul,
 Ah the night, I fear, will steal
 You too from me.
 

Cäcilie, Op. 27, No. 2

Richard Strauss (1864-1949) 

Text by Heinrich Hart (1855-1906)  
 
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Was träumen heißt
 Von brennenden Küssen,
 Vom Wandern und Ruhen
 Mit der Geliebten,
 Aug’ in Auge,
 Und kosend und plaudernd –
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Du neigtest Dein Herz!
 
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Was bangen heißt
 In einsamen Nächten,
 Umschauert vom Sturm,
 Da Niemand tröstet
 Milden Mundes
 Die kampfmüde Seele –
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Du kämest zu mir.
 
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Was leben heißt,
 Umhaucht von der Gottheit
 Weltschaffendem Atem,
 Zu schweben empor,
 Lichtgetragen,
 Zu seligen Höh’en,
 Wenn Du es wüßtest,
 Du lebtest mit mir.

Cecily
 English translation © Richard Stokes
 

 If you knew
 What it is to dream
 Of burning kisses,
 Of walking and resting
 With one’s love,
 Gazing at each other
 And caressing and talking –
 If you knew,
 Your heart would turn to me.
 
 If you knew
 What it is to worry
 On lonely nights
 In the frightening storm,
 With no soft voice
 To comfort
 The struggle-weary soul –
 If you knew,
 You would come to me.
 
 If you knew
 What it is to live
 Enveloped in God’s
 World-creating breath,
 To soar upwards,
 Borne on light
 To blessed heights –
 If you knew,
 You would live with me.

​

Le spectre de la rose 

Hector Berlioz (1803-1869)  

Text by Théophile Gautier (1811-1872) 

Soulêve ta paupière close

Qu'effleure un songe virginal;

Je suis le spectre d'une rose

Que tu portais hier au bal.

Tu me pris encore emperlée

​

Des pleurs d'argent de l'arrosoir,

Et, parmi la fête étoilée,

Tu me promenas tout le soir.

Ô toi qui de ma mort fus cause,

Sans que tu puisses le chasser,

Toutes les nuits mon spectre rose

À ton chevet viendra danser :

Mais ne crains rien, je ne réclame

Ni messe ni De Profundis ;

Ce léger parfum est mon âme,

Et j'arrive du du paradis.

Mon destin fut digne d'envie ;

Et pour avoir un sort si beau,

Plus d'un aurait donné sa vie,

Car sur ton sein j'ai mon tombeau,

Et sur l'albâtre où je repose

Un poète, avec un baiser,

Écrivit : Ci-gît une rose

Que tous les rois vont jalouser.

The ghost of the rose

Translation by Emily Ezust

​

Open your closed eyelid

Which is gently brushed by a virginal dream!

I am the ghost of the rose

That you wore last night at the ball.

You took me when I was still sprinkled with pearls

Of silvery tears from the watering-can,

And, among the sparkling festivities,

You carried me the entire night.

O you, who caused my death:

Without the power to chase it away,

You will be visited every night by my ghost,

Which will dance at your bedside.

But fear nothing; I demand

Neither Mass nor De Profundis;

This mild perfume is my soul,

And I've come from Paradise.

My destiny is worthy of envy;

And to have a fate so fine,

More than one would give his life

For on your breast I have my tomb,

And on the alabaster where I rest,

A poet with a kiss

Wrote: "Here lies a rose,

Of which all kings may be jealous.

Soupir  

Henri Duparc (1848-1933) 

Text by Rene-Francois-Armand (“Sully”) Prudhomme (1839-1907) 

Ne jamais la voir ni l'entendre,

Ne jamais tout haut la nommer,

Mais, fidèle, toujours l'attendre,

     Toujours l'aimer!

Ouvrir les bras, et, las d'attendre,

Sur le néant les refermer!

Mais encor, toujours les lui tendre

     Toujours l'aimer.

Ah! ne pouvoir que les lui tendre

Et dans les pleurs se consumer,

Mais ces pleurs toujours les répandre,

     Toujours l'aimer...

Ne jamais la voir ni l'entendre,

Ne jamais [tout haut]¹ la nommer,

Mais d'un amour toujours plus tendre

     Toujours l'aimer. Toujours!

Sigh

Translation by Amy Pfrimmer

Never see her or hear her,

Never say her name aloud,

But be faithful, always waiting for her,

Always love her!

Open your arms, and, weary of waiting,

On nothingness close them again!

But still, always hold them out to her

Always love her.

Ah! Not to be able to offer them to her 

And in her tears to be consumed,

But these tears always spill,

Always love her...

Never see her or hear her,

Never say her name aloud,

And with a love always more tender

Always love her. Always!

Chanson triste  

Henri Duparc (1848-1933) 

Text by Jean Lahor (1849-1909)  

Dans ton cœur dort un clair de lune,

Un doux clair de lune d'été,

Et pour fuir la vie importune,

Je me noierai dans ta clarté.

J'oublierai les douleurs passées,

Mon amour, quand tu berceras

Mon triste cœur et mes pensées

Dans le calme aimant de tes bras.

Tu prendras ma tête malade,

Oh! quelque fois sur tes genoux,

Et lui diras une ballade

Qui semblera parler de nous ;

Et dans tes yeux pleins de tristesse,

Dans tes yeux alors je boirai

Tant de baisers et de tendresses

Que peut-être je guérirai.

Sad Song

Translations by Emily Ezust

In your heart moonlight lies dormant,

A gentle moonlight of summer;

And far from the troubles of life,

I will lose myself in your brightness.

I will forget past griefs,

My love, when you rock

My unhappy heart and my thoughts

In the loving tranquility of your arms.

You will lay my anxious head,

Oh! - some evenings - upon your lap,

And you will utter to it a ballad

That will seem to speak of us;

And from your eyes so full of sadness,

From your eyes I will then drink

So many kisses and so much tenderness

That perhaps at last I will be healed.

 XVI: “Si come nella penna e nell’inchiostro”  

Benjamin Britten (1913-1976)  

Text by Michelangelo Buonarotti (1475-1564) 
 
 Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro
 È l’alto e ’l basso e ’l mediocre stile,
 E ne’ marmi l’immagin ricca e vile,
 Secondo che ’l sa trar l’ingegno nostro;
 Così, signor mie car, nel petto vostro,
 Quante l’orgoglio, è forse ogni atto umile:
 Ma io sol quel c’a me proprio è e simile
 Ne traggo, come fuor nel viso mostro.

​
 Chi semina sospir, lacrime e doglie,
 (L’umor dal ciel terreste, schietto e solo,
 A vari semi vario si converte),
 Però pianto e dolor ne miete e coglie;
 Chi mira alta beltà con sì gran duolo,
 Dubbie speranze, e pene acerbe e certe.

Sonnet XVI
 

As in pen and ink
There exists high, low, and medium style
And in marble hide rich and base images
According to what our ingenuity draws out;
So is it, my dear sir, that in your heart,
Such pride and perhaps some humility:
But I only draw out what is my own, and what I deserve,

That I show on my face.
He who sows sighs, tears, and pain
(Heaven's droplets on earth, simple, and pure,
Adapts itself to each seed)
Gathers therefore tears and sorrows;
He who looks upon beauty with such sadness,
Will certainly have dubious hopes and bitter sorrows. My dear sir.

​

XXX: “Veggio co’bei vostri occhi un dolce lume” 
 
 Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume,
 Che co’ miei ciechi già veder non posso;
 Porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo addosso,
 Che de’ mie zoppi non è già costume.
 Volo con le vostr’ale senza piume;
 Col vostr’ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso;
 Dal vostr’arbitrio son pallido e rosso,
 Freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.
 Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia,
 I mie’ pensier nel vostro cor si fanno,
 Nel vostro fiato son le mie parole.
 Come luna da sè sol par ch’io sia;
 Chè gli occhi nostri in ciel veder non sanno
 Se non quel tanto che n’accende il sole.

Sonnet XXX
 

 
 I see with your lovely eyes a sweet light,
 That my blind eyes cannot see:
 I carry with your feet a burden,
 Which is too much for my lame feet.
 I fly with your wings, myself featherless,
 With your spirit towards the heavens;
 At your whim I pale or blush,
 Shiver in the sun, burn in the fiercest cold.
 In your will is my will only,
 My thoughts form in your heart, my words on your breath.
 Like the moon only am I, which our eyes cannot see
 Except as much as is lighted by the sun.

​

XXIV: “Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede”

 Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede
 Nelle tuo belle membra oneste e care
 Quante natura e ’l ciel tra no’ puo’ fare,
 Quand’a null’altra suo bell’opra cede;
 Spirto leggiadro, in cui si spera e crede
 Dentro, come di fuor nel viso appare,
 Amor, pietà, mercè, cose sì rare

 Che mà furn’in beltà con tanta fede;
 L’amor mi prende, e la beltà mi lega;
 La pietà, la mercè con dolci sguardi
 Ferma speranz’al cor par che ne doni.
 Qual uso o qual governo al mondo niega,
 Qual crudeltà per tempo, o qual più tardi,
 C’a sì bel viso morte non perdoni?

Sonnet XXIV
 

 
 Nobly born soul, mirroring
 In your chaste and dear limbs
 All that nature and heaven can achieve,
 Exceeding all others;
 Spirit of grace, in whom we hope and believe
 dwells within, (as it appears in the face,)
 Love, Pity, Mercy, things so rare and never found
 so truly in beauty:
 Love takes me and beauty binds me;
 Pity, and Mercy with its sweet glances
 seems to hold fast in my heart.
 What custom nor law of this world,
 What cruelty of now, or time to come,
 Could keep death from sparing from a face so beautiful?

​

Pace non trovo  

Franz Liszt (1811-1886) 

Text by Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374) ​

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;
e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio;
et volo sopra 'l cielo, et giaccio in terra;
et nulla stringo, et tutto 'l mondo abbraccio.
 
Tal m'à in pregion, che non m'apre né serra,
né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio;
et non m'ancide Amore, et non mi sferra,
né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d'impaccio.
Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido;
et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita;
et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.
 
Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;
egualmente mi spiace morte et vita:
in questo stato son, donna, per voi.

I find no peace
 

 I find no peace, I make no war.
 I fear, and hope; I burn, I am ice;
 I fly above the sky, and fall to earth;
 I clutch at nothing, and I embrace the earth.
 
The one that imprisons me, that neither jails or frees me,
Neither keeps me to herself, nor loosens the noose;
Neither does Love kill me, nor unchain me;
Neither wishes me life, nor removes my hook.
 
 I see without eyes, I cry without a tongue;
 I wish to perish, yet plead for help.
 I hate myself and love another.
 
 I feed on pain, and I laugh while weeping;
 Equally despising death and life:
 In this state am I, dear Lady, for you.

​

Noci milá  

Petr Eben (1929-2007)  

Text by Anonymous 

Noci milá, proč' s tak dlúhá,
po mé milé jest mi túha,
že mi s ní nelze mluviti,
komu se mám utěšiti?
Již mé srdce bydlí v strasti,
v smutku, v túžebné žalosti.
To vše činí nebývánie
u té najmilejší panie.
Milý Bože, nedaj dlúze
po mé milé býti v túze!
Milý Bože!

​

Six Love Songs
 
 

Dear Night, why is it so long?
I long for my beloved;
I cannot speak to her--who shall I console?

My heart already lives in sorrow,
In longing and sorrow.
All of this, because I cannot be with my dearest one.
Dear God, do not let me long for my beloved!

Dear God!

​

On Mi Mandar Messaggi       

Petr Eben (1929-2007)  

Text by Anonymous 
 
 Non mi mandar messaggi, ché son falsi,
 Non mi mandar messaggi, ché son rei.

 Messaggio sieno gli occhi quando gli alsi,

 Messaggio sieno gli occhi tuoi a miei.

 Riguardami le labbra mie rosse,
 chaggio marito, che non le conosce.
 Non mi mandar messaggi.

Don't send me messages

Don't send me messages, for they are false.
Don't send me messages, because they are guilty.
Your eyes are messages when you raise them up,
Your eyes are messages when they greet mine.
Look at my red lips, I'll choose a husband who doesn't know them.
Don't send me messages.

​

Ballade des dames du temps jadis   

Petr Eben (1929-2007)  

Text by François Villon (1431-1463) 
 
 Dites-moi où, n'en quel pays,
 Est Flora la belle Romaine,
 Archipiades, ne Thaïs,
 Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
 Echo, parlant quant bruit on mène
 Dessus rivière ou sur étang,
 Qui beauté eut trop plus qu'humaine ?

 Mais où sont les neiges d'antan ?
 
 Où est la très sage Héloïs,
 Pour qui fut châtré et puis moine
 Pierre Esbaillart à Saint-Denis?
 Pour son amour eut cette essoine.
 Semblablement, où est la roine
 Qui commanda que Buridan
 Fût jeté en un sac en Seine?
 Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?
 
 La roine Blanche comme un lis
 Qui chantait à voix de sirène,
 Berthe au grand pied, Bietrix, Aliz,
 Haramburgis qui tint le Maine,
 Et Jeanne, la bonne Lorraine
 Qu'Anglais brûlèrent à Rouen ;
 Où sont-ils, où, Vierge souvraine?

 Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?
 
 Prince, n'enquerrez de semaine
 Où elles sont, ni de cet an,
 Que ce refrain ne vous remaine :
 Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?  

Ballad of the long-ago ladies

Tell me where, in what land
Is Flora the lovely Roman
Or Archipiada, or Thais
Her first cousin,
Or Echo, speaking when a sound is made
Above rivers and ponds,
Whose beauty was so much more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Where is Heloise, wise one,
For whom Pierre Abelard was castrated,
And then a monk at Saint-Denis?
For her love he bore it willingly.
Likewise, where is that queen
Who ordered Buridan
Thrown into the Seine in a sack?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
 

Queen Blanche, white like a lily,
who sang a siren's song,
Bertha with her big feet, Beatrice, Alice,
Arembourg who held Maine,
And Joan of Lorraine, the blessed,
Who the English burnt at Rouen;
But where are they, where, O Sovereign Virgin?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
 
Prince, don't ask in a week
where they are, or neither in a year;
I can only sing this refrain:
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

​

At St. Patrick’s Purgatory

Samuel Barber (1910-1981)     

Texts by anonymous 13th century text 

Translated by Sean O' Faolin

Pity me on my pilgrimage to Loch Derg!

O King of the churches and the bells

Bewailing your sores and your wounds,

But not a tear can I squeeze from my eyes!

Not moisten an eye after so much sin!

Pity me, O King!

What shall I do with a heart that seeks only its own ease?

O only begotten Son by whom all men were made,

who shunned not the death by three wounds,

pity me on my pilgrimage to Loch Derg

and I with a heart not softer than a stone!

Promiscuity 

​Samuel Barber (1910-1981)

Texts by anonymous 9th century text

​

I do not know with whom Edan will sleep,

But I do know that fair Edan will not sleep alone. 

The Desire for Hermitage

Samuel Barber (1910-1981)     

Texts by anonymous 8-9th century 

Translated by Sean O' Faolain

Ah! To be all alone in a little cell with nobody near me;

Beloved that pilgrimage before the last pilgrimage to Death.

Singing the passing hours to cloudy Heaven;

feeding upon dry bread and water from the cold spring.

That will be an end to evil when I am alone

in a lovely little corner among tombs

far from the houses of the great.

Ah! To be all alone in a little cell,

to be alone, all alone:

Alone I came into the world,

alone I shall go from it.

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

Tom Lehrer (1928-2025)  

Lyrics by the composer    

Spring is here, spring is here.

Life is skittles, and life is beer.

I think the loveliest time of the year

Is the spring, I do, don't you? Course you do!

But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me

And makes every Sunday a treat for me:

All the world seems in tune

On a spring afternoon

When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

Every Sunday you'll see

My sweetheart and me

As we poison the pigeons in the park.

When they see us coming

The birdies all try an' hide,

But they still go for peanuts

When coated with cyan-hide.

The sun's shining bright,

Everything seems all right

When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We've gained notoriety

And caused much anxiety

In the Audubon Society

With our games.

They call it impiety

And lack of propriety

And quite a variety of unpleasant names.

But it's not against any religion

To want to dispose of a pigeon.

So, if Sunday you're free,
 Why don't you come with me,
 And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
 And maybe we'll do in a squirrel or two
 While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
 
 We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment,
 Except for the few we take home to experiment.
 My pulse will be quickenin'
 With each drop of strychnine
 We feed to a pigeon
 (It just takes a smidgen)
 To poison a pigeon in the park.
 
   

I'll Be Seeing You

Sammy Fain (1902-1989) 

Lyrics by Irving Kahal (1903-1942) 

 Cathedral bells were tolling and our hearts sang on;
 Was it the spell of Paris or the April dawn?
 Who knows if we shall meet again?
 But when the morning chimes ring sweet again...

 I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places
 That this heart of mine
 Embraces all day through
 In that small cafe
 The park across the way
 The children's carousel
 The chestnut trees, the wishing well.

 I'll be seeing you
 In every lovely summer's day
 In everything that's light and gay
 I'll always think of you that way
 I'll find you in the morning sun
 And when the night is new
 I'll be looking at the moon
 But I'll be seeing you.

 I'll find you in the morning sun
 And when the night is new
 I'll be looking at the moon
 But I'll be seeing you.

Old Friends

Stephen Sondheim (1930-2021) 

Lyrics by the composer

 Hey, old friend,
 Are you okay, old friend?
 What do you say, old friend,
 Are we or are we unique?
 Time goes by,
 Everything else keeps changing.
 You and I,
 We get continued next week.
 
 Most friends fade
 Or they don't make the grade.
 New one's are quickly made
 And in a pinch, sure, they'll do.
 But us, old friend,
 What's to discuss, old friend?
 Here's to us. Who's like us?
 Damn few!
 
 So, old friends,
 Fill me in slow, old friends?
 Start from hello, old friends,
 I want the when, where and how.
 Old friends do
 Tend to become old habit?
 Never knew
 How much I missed you till now.
 
 Most friends fade
 Or they don't make the grade.
 New ones are quickly made,
 Some of them worth something, too.
 But us, old friends?
 What's to discuss, old friends?
 
 Tell you something:
 Good friends point out your lies,
 Whereas old friends live and let live.
 
 Good friends like and advise,
 Whereas old friends love and forgive.
 
 And old friends let you go your own way?
 
 Help you find your own way?
 
 Let you off when you're wrong?
 
 If you're wrong?
 
 When you're wrong?
 
 Right or wrong, the point is:
 Old friends shouldn't care if you're wrong?
 
 Should, but not for too long?
 
 What's too long?
 
 If you're wrong?
 
 When you're wrong?
 
 The thing is:
 Old friends do leave their brands on you,
 But old friends shouldn't compete.
 
 Old friends don't make demands on you?
 
 Should make demands on you?
 
 Well, don't make demands you can't meet.
 
 Well, what's the
 Point of demands you can meet?
 
 Well, there's a
 Time for demands,
 Whether you meet them or not?
 
 Hey, old friends,
 How do we stay old friends?
 Who is to say, old friends,
 How an old friendship survives?
 One day chums
 Having a laugh a minute,
 One day comes
 And they're a part of your lives.
 
 New friends pour
 Through the revolving door?
 Maybe there's one that's more.
 If you find one, that'll do.
 But us, old friends,
 What's to discuss, old friends?
 Here's to us!
 Who's like us?
 
 Two old friends,
 Fewer won't do, old friends?
 Gotta have two old friends
 Helping you balance along:
 One upbraids you
 For your faults and fancies,
 One persuades you
 That the other one's wrong.
 
 Most friends fade
 Or they don't make the grade.
 New ones are quickly made,
 Perfect as long as they're new.
 But us, old friends,
 What's to discuss, old friends?
 Here's to us!
 Who's like us?
 Damn few!