We had our day, and now it's over We had our song, and now it's all sung We took our stroll through summer's clover But summer's gone, baby, and the walking's done. So, tell me gently, who'll be your lover? Who'll be your lover after I am gone? Will it be the moon that hears your sighing? Will it be the willow that hears your lonesome sigh? 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 the 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 sighs None but the wind shall warn of my returning So fare thee well, my love, goodbye.