 | Songs and Lyrics |  |
117
The Golden Bird.
I will not hear one cruel word,
Or how he sinn'd, or how he err'd;
He's yet to me the golden bird
He ever was to Dora!
Or how he sinn'd, or how he err'd;
He's yet to me the golden bird
He ever was to Dora!
I met him on the street to-day,
In haste to meet my rival gay;
He turn'd from me his face away!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
In haste to meet my rival gay;
He turn'd from me his face away!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
Into a floral shop he went,
I knew too well with what intent;
Ah, not for me the wreath was meant!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
I knew too well with what intent;
Ah, not for me the wreath was meant!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
While I sit here a weary wight,
He with my foe, to her delight,
Will dance his bridal dance to-night!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
He with my foe, to her delight,
Will dance his bridal dance to-night!
—Yet, yet he's dear to Dora.
My heart is rent: he's sore to blame;
Yet blame him not, or kindly blame;
I cannot hear a word would shame
The golden bird of Dora!
Yet blame him not, or kindly blame;
I cannot hear a word would shame
The golden bird of Dora!
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