 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
Ballad.
They say that I am silent, and my silence they condemn,
For O! although they talk to me, I never talk to them!
I heed not what they think, although I know 'tis thought by some
That I am dumb or deaf, but O! I'm neither deaf nor dumb!
For O! although they talk to me, I never talk to them!
I heed not what they think, although I know 'tis thought by some
That I am dumb or deaf, but O! I'm neither deaf nor dumb!
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They say I'm looking sick and pale; and well indeed they may;
They tell me, too, that I am sad; I'm anything but gay!
They smile—but O! the more they smile, the more, alas! I sigh;
And when they strive to make me laugh, I turn me round and cry!
They tell me, too, that I am sad; I'm anything but gay!
They smile—but O! the more they smile, the more, alas! I sigh;
And when they strive to make me laugh, I turn me round and cry!
They bid me sing the song I sung, as I have sung before,
The song I sung no more I sing—my singing days are o'er!
They bid me play the fiddle too—my fiddle it is mute!
Nor can I, as I used to do, blow tunes upon the flute!
The song I sung no more I sing—my singing days are o'er!
They bid me play the fiddle too—my fiddle it is mute!
Nor can I, as I used to do, blow tunes upon the flute!
The feeling fain would soothe my woe, the heartless say I sham;
The ribald mock my grief, and call me—Sentimental Sam!
The ribald mock my grief, and call me—Sentimental Sam!
They cannot guess what 'tis I want—there's few indeed that can:
I want—
I want—
I want to be a butterfly, and flutter round a fan!
I want—
I want—
I want to be a butterfly, and flutter round a fan!
| The Ingoldsby Lyrics | |