 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
BEAUTY AND TIME.
Time met Beauty one day in her garden,
Where roses were blooming fair;
Time and Beauty were never good friends,
So she wonder'd what brought him there.
Poor Beauty exclaim'd, with a sorrowful air,
“I request, Father Time, my sweet roses you'll spare,”
For Time was going to mow them all down,
While Beauty exclaim'd with her prettiest frown,
“Fie, Father Time!”
Where roses were blooming fair;
Time and Beauty were never good friends,
So she wonder'd what brought him there.
Poor Beauty exclaim'd, with a sorrowful air,
“I request, Father Time, my sweet roses you'll spare,”
For Time was going to mow them all down,
While Beauty exclaim'd with her prettiest frown,
“Fie, Father Time!”
“Well,” said Time, “at least let me gather
A few of your roses here,
'Tis part of my pride, to be always supplied
With such roses, the whole of the year.”
Poor Beauty consented, tho' half in despair;
And Time, as he went, ask'd a lock of her hair,
And, as he stole the soft ringlet so bright,
He vow'd 'twas for love—but she knew 'twas for spite.
Oh fie, Father Time!
A few of your roses here,
'Tis part of my pride, to be always supplied
With such roses, the whole of the year.”
Poor Beauty consented, tho' half in despair;
And Time, as he went, ask'd a lock of her hair,
And, as he stole the soft ringlet so bright,
He vow'd 'twas for love—but she knew 'twas for spite.
Oh fie, Father Time!
47
Time went on—and left Beauty in tears;
He's a tell-tale, the world well knows,
So he boasted, to all, of the fair lady's fall,
And show'd the lost ringlet and rose.
So shocked was poor Beauty to find that her fame
Was ruin'd,—tho' she was in nowise to blame,
That she droop'd—like some flow'r that is torn from its clime,
And her friends all mysteriously said,—“It was Time.”
Oh fie, Father Time!
He's a tell-tale, the world well knows,
So he boasted, to all, of the fair lady's fall,
And show'd the lost ringlet and rose.
So shocked was poor Beauty to find that her fame
Was ruin'd,—tho' she was in nowise to blame,
That she droop'd—like some flow'r that is torn from its clime,
And her friends all mysteriously said,—“It was Time.”
Oh fie, Father Time!
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |