Old Songs, Old Songs,—how well I sung Your varied airs with lisping tongue; When breath and spirit, free and light, Caroll'd away from morn till night! When this beginning and that end, Were mystically made to blend, And the sweet "Lass of Richmond Hill" Gave place to her of "Patie's Mill!"
Old Songs, Old Songs,—how thick ye come, Telling of Childhood and of Home, When Home forged links in Memory's chain. Too strong for Time to break in twain; When Home was all that Home should be, And held the vast, rich world for me!
Old Songs, Old Songs,—what heaps I knew, From "Chevy Chase" to "Black-eyed Sue;" From "Flow, thou regal purple Stream," To "Rousseau's" melancholy "Dream!" I loved the pensive "Cabin Boy" With earnest truth and real joy. My warmest feelings wander back To greet "Tom Bowling" and "Poor Jack;" And, oh "Will Watch," the "Smuggler" bold, My plighted troth thou'lt ever hold!
I doted on the "auld Scot's sounet," As though I'd worn the plaid and bonnet; I went abroad with "Sandy's Ghost; I stood with Bannockburn's brave host; And proudly toss'd my curly head With "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." I shouted "Comin' through the Rye" With restless step and sparkling eye; And chased away the passing frown With "Bonnie ran the Burnie down."
The tiny "Warbler" from the stall— The fluttering "Ballad" on the wall— The gipsy's glee—the beggar's catch— The old wife's lay—the idiot's snatch— The schoolboy's chorus, rude and witty— The harvest strain—the carol ditty— I tax'd ye all—I stole from each; I spurn'd no tutor that could teach: Though long my list-though great my store, I ever sought to add one more.
Old Songs, Old Songs,—ye fed, no doubt, The flame that since has broken out; For I would wander far and lone, And sit upon the moss-wrapt stone, Conning "old songs," till some strange power Breathed a wild magic on the hour; Sweeping the pulse-chords of my soul, As winds o'er sweeping waters roll. 'Twas done—the volume was unseal'd— The hallow'd mission was reveal'd. Old Songs call'd up a kindred tone; An echo started—'twas my own. Joy, pride, and riches swell'd my breast, The "lyre" was mine, and I was blest.
Old Songs, Old Songs,—my brain hath lost Much that it gain'd with pain and cost; I have forgotten all the rules Of Murray's books and Trimmer's schools. Detested figures! how I hate The mere remembrance of a slate; How I have cast from woman's thought Much goodly lore the girl was taught! But not a word has pass'd away Of "Rest thee, Babe," or "Robin Gray."
Sweet "Rest thee, Babe!" oh, peaceful theme That floated o'er my infant dream! My brow was cool, my pillow smooth, When thou wert sung, to lull and soothe, By lips that only ceased the strain To kiss my cheek, then sung again. I loved the tune, and many a time I humm'd the air and lisp'd the rhyme, Till, curl'd up 'neath its potent charms, The kitten slumber'd in my arms.
Old Songs, Old Songs,—how ye bring back The brightest paths in mortal track! I see the merry circle spread Till watchman's notice warn'd to bed,— When one fair boy would loiter near, And whisper in a well-pleased ear, "Come, mother, sit before we go, And sing 'John Anderson, my Jo.'"
The ballad still is breathing round, But other voices yield the sound; Strangers possess the household room; The mother lieth in the tomb; And the blithe boy that praised her song, Sleepeth as soundly and as long.
Old Songs, Old Songs,—I should not sigh,— Joys of the earth on earth must die; But spectral forms will sometimes start Within the caverns of the heart, Haunting the lone and darken'd cell Where, warm in life, they used to dwell.
Hope, Youth, Love, Home,—each human tie That binds, we know not how or why— All, all that to the soul belongs Is closely mingled with "Old Songs."
