Music, oh, music the master, there in the heat of the noon,
A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Carried me back in my dreaming, far, to the long, long ago;
Feeling, 'way down in my heart-chords, hope I thought never could glow;
Brought to me, who was a failure, beaten and crossed in the fight,
Help in the hour of the darkness—pointed the way to the light.
Perhaps there is no magic in this dull, old world of ours;
Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours;
Perhaps there is no beauty and perhaps all things are wrong;
But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!
GETHSEMANE
By Edmund Leamy
Breathes there a man who claimeth not
One lonely spot,
His own Gethsemane,
Whither with his inmost pain
He fain
Would weary plod,
Find the surcease that is known
In wind a-moan
And sobbing sea,
Cry his sorrow hid of men,
And then—
Touch hands with God.
