 | New songs of innocence |  |
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THE OLD ALBUM.
Yes, boys; we'll open it to-night,—
This meeting-house of silent friends
In fading finery bedight,—
And talk of them, to make amends
For our unmannerly neglect.
Stand one of you on either side;
We'll stay no longer to reflect,
But straight the album open wide.
This meeting-house of silent friends
In fading finery bedight,—
And talk of them, to make amends
For our unmannerly neglect.
Stand one of you on either side;
We'll stay no longer to reflect,
But straight the album open wide.
You smile to see their ancient dress
That was so modish in its time;
The ladies' hoops, and helplessness,
The men-folk's attitudes sublime.
That boy to be a soldier grew—
In the Crimean war he fell;
This other wore a jacket blue,
And many a famous yarn could tell.
That was so modish in its time;
The ladies' hoops, and helplessness,
The men-folk's attitudes sublime.
That boy to be a soldier grew—
In the Crimean war he fell;
This other wore a jacket blue,
And many a famous yarn could tell.
Ah! now we come to later days;
And yet, how different from now
Their looks, their costume, and their ways!
To Fashion all indeed must bow.
Here Willie spies a pictured pair
That takes his fancy for the night:
‘Who is the sweet-faced lady there
Beside the little girl in white?’
And yet, how different from now
Their looks, their costume, and their ways!
To Fashion all indeed must bow.
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That takes his fancy for the night:
‘Who is the sweet-faced lady there
Beside the little girl in white?’
You know the little girl in white;
She stays with you, now she is grown.
‘Mamma!’ cries Jamie, in delight;
‘The lips and eyes are all your own.’
‘But who's the stranger lady then?’
Asks Willie; ‘do we know her?’ No;
She died when I was only ten,
My Willie, many years ago.
She stays with you, now she is grown.
‘Mamma!’ cries Jamie, in delight;
‘The lips and eyes are all your own.’
‘But who's the stranger lady then?’
Asks Willie; ‘do we know her?’ No;
She died when I was only ten,
My Willie, many years ago.
‘Tell us about her.’ Well, I will—
The little that I have to tell.
Her grave sweet smile, it haunts me still—
My father's sister Isabel.
Brief glimpses of her, memory gives;
Within the bower that was her room
'Mid faded needlework she lives,
With music tinkling through the gloom.
The little that I have to tell.
Her grave sweet smile, it haunts me still—
My father's sister Isabel.
Brief glimpses of her, memory gives;
Within the bower that was her room
'Mid faded needlework she lives,
With music tinkling through the gloom.
She loved an honest man and true,
And waited for him many a year;
And when at last their sky was blue
And all their future golden-clear—
When one short year of wedded life
Had brought a higher title still
And crowned a mother in the wife—
She died, by God's most holy will.
And waited for him many a year;
And when at last their sky was blue
And all their future golden-clear—
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Had brought a higher title still
And crowned a mother in the wife—
She died, by God's most holy will.
She died—and left her baby-boy,
And left the lover of her youth;
So short a dream of earthly joy,
Such strangely-ordered life, in sooth,
Was hers! Ah, Willie, close the book;
God's ways we will not wonder o'er;
She'll meet us with that grave sweet look,
And tell us all, on yonder shore!
And left the lover of her youth;
So short a dream of earthly joy,
Such strangely-ordered life, in sooth,
Was hers! Ah, Willie, close the book;
God's ways we will not wonder o'er;
She'll meet us with that grave sweet look,
And tell us all, on yonder shore!
| New songs of innocence | |