A Song.
88
There's a tender tone of music waking somewhere in the world,
And upon its fairy cadences my soul is lightly whirled;
But a passion of impatience flashes through me like a fire,
And thrills me like the wooing winds that kiss a waiting lyre.
Sing, glad lyre! Waiting days are past,
For in the harbour of my heart my dream-ship lies at last.
And upon its fairy cadences my soul is lightly whirled;
But a passion of impatience flashes through me like a fire,
And thrills me like the wooing winds that kiss a waiting lyre.
Sing, glad lyre! Waiting days are past,
For in the harbour of my heart my dream-ship lies at last.
On the Landing.
It was such a trifle, how could he guess
Such issues were in it? A moment, or less,
He loitered to chat with Mackenzie and Hall,
And time passes quickly, you know, at a ball.
She had said, "I will be ready at ten,"
And he had stayed gossiping there with the men.
Flame was not fit for the hurdles, they said,
And he had a right to make sure on that head,
Seeing that Flame was his pick of the lot,
And stood in to win him a nice little pot.
Such issues were in it? A moment, or less,
He loitered to chat with Mackenzie and Hall,
And time passes quickly, you know, at a ball.
She had said, "I will be ready at ten,"
And he had stayed gossiping there with the men.
Flame was not fit for the hurdles, they said,
And he had a right to make sure on that head,
Seeing that Flame was his pick of the lot,
And stood in to win him a nice little pot.
