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 | The Music of Stephen C. Foster . |  |
448
COMRADES FILL NO GLASS FOR ME.
[1]
Oh! comrades, fill no glass for meTo drown my soul in liquid flame,
For if I drank, the toast should be—
To blighted fortune, health and fame.
Yet, though I long to quell the strife,
That passion holds against my life,
Still, boon companions may ye be,
But comrades, fill no glass for me.
2
I know a breast that once was lightWhose patient sufferings need my care,
I know a hearth that once was bright,
But drooping hopes have nestled there.
Then while the tear drops nightly steal
From wounded hearts that I should heal,
Though boon companions ye may be—
Oh! comrades, fill no glass for me.
3
When I was young I felt the tideOf aspirations undefiled,
But manhood's years have wronged the pride
My parents centered in their child.
Then, by a mother's sacred tear,
By all that memory should revere,
Though boon companions ye may be—
Oh! comrades, fill no glass for me.
| The Music of Stephen C. Foster . | |