|Born||(1779-05-28)28 May 1779
Dublin, Kingdom of Ireland
|Died||25 February 1852(1852-02-25) (aged 72)
Sloperton Cottage, Bromham, Wiltshire, England
|Occupation||Poet, singer, songwriter, entertainer|
|Notable works||“The Minstrel Boy”
“The Last Rose of Summer”
This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or heaven.
The heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close.
From plants that wake when others sleep, from timid jasmine buds that keep their odour to themselves all day, but when the sunlight dies away let the delicious secret out to every breeze that roams about.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.
All that’s bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
My only books were woman’s looks, and folly’s all they’ve taught me.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.
A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roue to retire upon.
Ask a woman’s advice, and whatever she advises, Do the very reverse and you’re sure to be wise.
What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.