SONG. You ask me to sing-I'd be glad if I could Like a twinkling lark that sings up in the sky, Or a swan that sings only when going to die. Ere now I have sung, when my heart was young, Like cock-crow loud and clearly, But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow, Because I love you dearly. Could I sing like a syren—but that would I not, Could I sing like a minstrel whose name is forgot, But whose strain is a treasure which all men may borrow, To harmonise joy and to sweeten their sorrow, Oh, then I would sing to my dear, dear thing, But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow, Because I love you dearly. Could I sing what I feel, and express by a note How justly esteeming, how fondly I dote, Then would music no more be a nice thing of art, But as in old time the true voice of the heart. I could sing all day long-sing song after song, But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow, VOL. II. THE SOLACE OF SONG. WHEN on my mother's arm I lay Still was I glad by night and day To hear Baby, baby, do not cry, It was a lovely lullaby. I was a boy, a wayward boy, To any that could sing. Sing up, sing high, a merry lay, I was a youth, a sighing youth, And then I thought that all was truth That I was fond to sing. Sweetly, sweetly let me die In the soft breathing of a sigh. But now, alas, I am a man, And time has pruned my wing, Singing to the autumn blast, Be my sweetest song my last. And should I live to be an old, Holy, holy, may the Psalm My very latest sense embalm! A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE. A SONG without a tune I made in the month of June, Eighteen hundred and forty-eight; 'Tis right to be exact in date. Sweet lassy, parted we have been And many a change the world has seen, Kings that were mighty monarchs then Are not, or nothing are but men. And many a maid that loved a man Of wealth and high degree Must try to love him, if she can, In perilous poverty. For in the wild creed of the time, To have been rich is deem'd a crime. |