MY OLD PLAYMATE.
Is it she with whom I played?
She?—that happy little maid!
This pale woman, sorrow bowed,
With a face so stern and proud—
Face that haunts the memory long
With its tale of grief and wrong.
She?—that happy little maid!
This pale woman, sorrow bowed,
With a face so stern and proud—
Face that haunts the memory long
With its tale of grief and wrong.
And the child I used to know,
How she shrank from sight of woe!
Hers was such a fair domain,
She could brook no thought of pain—
Nothing that would bring distress,
Her dear world must only bless.
How she shrank from sight of woe!
Hers was such a fair domain,
She could brook no thought of pain—
Nothing that would bring distress,
Her dear world must only bless.
Ah! I seem to see her still,
With her sweet, imperious will,
And her eager, joyous ways,
Bright as nature's brightest days,
She was sovereign, I was knight,
Always yielding her the right;
Though I sometimes would protest
When I thought I knew the best.
But I'm glad she had her way,
When I look at her to-day,
Glad for every hour of joy
That we knew as girl and boy.
With her sweet, imperious will,
And her eager, joyous ways,
Bright as nature's brightest days,
She was sovereign, I was knight,
Always yielding her the right;
Though I sometimes would protest
When I thought I knew the best.
But I'm glad she had her way,
When I look at her to-day,
Glad for every hour of joy
That we knew as girl and boy.
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