The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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| SONGS WITHOUT SENSE FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
296
SONGS WITHOUT SENSE FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO
I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL
Affection's charm no longer gilds
The idol of the shrine;
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
Regret's ambrosial wine.
Though Friendship's offering buried lies
'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
Regard and Faith will ever bloom
Perpetually below.
The idol of the shrine;
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
Regret's ambrosial wine.
Though Friendship's offering buried lies
'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
Regard and Faith will ever bloom
Perpetually below.
I see thee whirl in marble halls,
In Pleasure's giddy train;
Remorse is never on that brow,
Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
Deceit has marked thee for her own:
Inconstancy the same;
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
Athwart thy path of shame.
In Pleasure's giddy train;
Remorse is never on that brow,
Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
Deceit has marked thee for her own:
Inconstancy the same;
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
Athwart thy path of shame.
II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC
The dews are heavy on my brow;
My breath comes hard and low;
Yet, mother dear, grant one request,
Before your boy must go.
Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,
And ere my senses fail,
Place me once more, O mother dear.
Astride the old fence-rail.
My breath comes hard and low;
Yet, mother dear, grant one request,
Before your boy must go.
Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,
And ere my senses fail,
297
Astride the old fence-rail.
The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!
How oft these youthful legs,
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung
Across those wooden pegs!
'T was there the nauseating smoke
Of my first pipe arose:
O mother dear, these agonies
Are far less keen than those.
How oft these youthful legs,
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung
Across those wooden pegs!
'T was there the nauseating smoke
Of my first pipe arose:
O mother dear, these agonies
Are far less keen than those.
I know where lies the hazel dell,
Where simple Nellie sleeps;
I know the cot of Nettie Moore,
And where the willow weeps.
I know the brookside and the mill,
But all their pathos fails
Beside the days when once I sat
Astride the old fence-rails.
Where simple Nellie sleeps;
I know the cot of Nettie Moore,
And where the willow weeps.
I know the brookside and the mill,
But all their pathos fails
Beside the days when once I sat
Astride the old fence-rails.
III. SWISS AIR
I'm a gay tra, la, la,
With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright—
And my light—
Tra, la, le.
[Repeat.]With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright—
And my light—
Tra, la, le.
Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
And ring, ting, ling, ling,
And sing fal, la, la,
La, la, le.
[Repeat.]And ring, ting, ling, ling,
And sing fal, la, la,
La, la, le.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |