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My child, we once were children,
Two children, small and gay;
We crept to the tiny hen-house
And hid ourselves under the hay.

We cackled just like chickens,
And as folks passed to and fro:
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” till they all believed,
It was really the old cock's crow.

We draped the chests in our courtyard
With hangings and carpets bright,
And made the genteelest of villas,
And dwelt there from morning till night.

Our neighbour's aged tabby,
Came often to call in state;
We received her with bows and curtseys,
And compliments many and great.

And after her health we asked her
In friendly, solicitous chat;
We have since said the same, how often!
To many another old cat.

We sat together conversing,
As sage as old folks in our ways;
And grumbled that all things were better
In our own youthful days;

That Love, Truth, Faith, for ever
Had vanished from our sphere;
That money was hard to come by,
And coffee mighty dear!

Past are those games of childhood,
As all things pass in sooth.
Time, and the world, and money,
And Faith, and Love, and Truth.
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Author of original: 
Heinrich Heine
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