Songs and Lyrics | ||
133
Baloo.
Baloo, my sweet baby—the blossom!
I dandle't till weary, and sigh,
With not a bare drop in my bosom
To silence its pitiful cry.
I dandle't till weary, and sigh,
With not a bare drop in my bosom
To silence its pitiful cry.
And had he but thought of the trouble;
And had he but thought on the pain:
Tho' green in the blade with the stubble,
I'm fated to bleach on the plain.
And had he but thought on the pain:
Tho' green in the blade with the stubble,
I'm fated to bleach on the plain.
Erewhile yet the lauded of many,
A flower in the garden was I;
Denied now a kind word from any,
A weed on the common I lie.
A flower in the garden was I;
Denied now a kind word from any,
A weed on the common I lie.
But let anguish thus my heart rend, and
The briny tear thus my cheek lave;
The longest lane yet has an end, and
The weary sleep sound in the grave.
The briny tear thus my cheek lave;
The longest lane yet has an end, and
The weary sleep sound in the grave.
Songs and Lyrics | ||