Farewell, old friend,—we part at last; Fruits, flowers, and summer, all are past, And when the beech-leaves bid adieu, My Old Straw Hat must vanish too. We've been together many an hour, In grassy dell and garden bower; And plait and riband, scorch'd and torn, Proclaim how well thou hast been worn. We've had a time, gay, bright, and long; So let me sing a grateful song,— And if one bay-leaf falls to me, I'll stick it firm and fast in thee, My Old Straw Hat.
Thy flapping shade and flying strings Are worth a thousand close-tied things. I love thy easy-fitting crown; Thrust lightly back, or slouching down. I cannot brook a mutiled ear, When lark and blackbird whistle near; And dearly like to meet and seek The fresh wind with unguarded cheek. Toss'd in a tree, thou'lt bear no harm; Flung on the moss, thou'lt lose no charm; Like many a real friend on earth, Rough usage only proves thy worth, My Old Straw Hat.
The world will stare at those who wear Rich snowy pearls in raven hair; And diamonds flash bravely out In chesnut tresses wreathed about: The golden bands may twine and twirl, Like shining snakes, through each fair curl; And soft down with imperial grace May bend o'er Beauty's blushing face: But much I doubt if brows that bear The jewell'd clasp and plumage rare, Or temples bound with crescent wreath, Are half so cool as mine beneath My Old Straw Hat.
Minerva's helmet! what of that? Thou'rt quite as good, my Old Straw Hat; For I can think, and muse, and dream, With poring brain and busy scheme; I can inform my craving soul How wild bees work and planets roll; And be all silent, grave, and grim, Beneath the shelter of thy brim. The cap of Liberty, forsooth! Thou art the thing to me in truth; For slavish fashion ne'er can break Into the green paths where I take My Old Straw Hat.
My Old Straw Hat, my conscience tells Thou hast been hung with Folly's bells; Yet Folly rings a pleasant chime, If the rogue will but "mind his time," And not come jingling on the way When sober minstrels ought to play. For oft when hearts and eyes are light, Old Wisdom should keep out of sight. But now the rustic bench is left, The tree of every leaf bereft, And merry voices, all are still, That welcomed to the well-known hill My Old Straw Hat.
Farewell, old friend, thy work is done; The misty clouds shut out the sun; The grapes are pluck'd, the hops are off, The woods are stark, and I must doff My Old Straw Hat-but "bide a wee," Fair skies we've seen, yet we may see Skies full as fair as those of yore, And then we'll wander forth once more. Farewell, till drooping bluebells blow, And violets stud the warm hedgerow— Farewell, till daisies deck the plain— Farewell, till spring days come again— My Old Straw Hat!
