Mes jours s'en sont allez errant.

The old days are dead and gone days. For what I did in the past I have been punished. I have been cured.

The "good old times" — all times when old are good —
Are gone.

What I did or didn't do, I think it's over now. And what I will or will not do, I think is also over.

I wish those days could come back once more,
Why did those days ever have to go?

The light of other days is faded,
And all their glories past.

My days of love are over; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before, — In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.

Those days are dead and gone and the eulogy was delivered by Perl.

I rather miss the old days

Looking back, I realize that this period of my life has irrevocably come to a close; my happy-go-lucky, carefree schooldays are gone forever. I don't even miss them. I've outgrown them. I can no longer just kid around, since my serious side is always there.

My dancing days are done.

The past is just something that's over.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

I think we agree, the past is over.