How I long ag’in to hear ’em
    Pourin’ forth from soul to soul,
  With the treble high an’ meller,
    An’ the bass’s mighty roll;
  But the times is very diff’rent,
    An’ the music heerd to-day
  Ain’t the singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

  Little screechin’ by a woman,
    Little squawkin’ by a man,
  Then the organ’s twiddle-twaddle,
    Jest the empty space to span,—­
  An’ ef you should even think it,
    ’T is n’t proper fur to say
  That you want to hear the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

  But I think that some bright mornin’,
    When the toils of life air o’er,
  An’ the sun o’ heaven arisin’
    Glads with light the happy shore,
  I shall hear the angel chorus,
    In the realms of endless day,
  A-singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

MELANCHOLIA

  Silently without my window,
    Tapping gently at the pane,
    Falls the rain. 
  Through the trees sighs the breeze
    Like a soul in pain. 
  Here alone I sit and weep;
  Thought hath banished sleep.

  Wearily I sit and listen
    To the water’s ceaseless drip. 
    To my lip
  Fate turns up the bitter cup,
    Forcing me to sip;
  ’T is a bitter, bitter drink,
  Thus I sit and think,—­

  Thinking things unknown and awful,
    Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes,
    Waking dreams. 
  Spectres dark, corpses stark,
    Show the gaping seams
  Whence the cold and cruel knife
  Stole away their life.

  Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring,
    Gazing ghastly into mine;
    Blood like wine
  On the brow—­clotted now—­
    Shows death’s dreadful sign. 
  Lonely vigil still I keep;
  Would that I might sleep!

  Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! 
    Still runs on my stream of thought;
    I am caught
  In the net fate hath set. 
    Mind and soul are brought
  To destruction’s very brink;
  Yet I can but think!

  Eyes that look into the future,—­
    Peeping forth from out my mind,
    They will find
  Some new weight, soon or late,
    On my soul to bind,
    Crushing all its courage out,—­
  Heavier than doubt.

  Dawn, the Eastern monarch’s daughter,
    Rising from her dewy bed,
    Lays her head
  ‘Gainst the clouds’ sombre shrouds
    Now half fringed with red. 
  O’er the land she ’gins to peep;
  Come, O gentle Sleep!

  Hark! the morning cock is crowing;
    Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away;
    ’Tis the day. 
  Rosy morn now is born;
    Dark thoughts may not stay. 
  Day my brain from foes will keep;
  Now, my soul, I sleep.

THE WOOING

  A youth went faring up and down,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  He fared him to the market town,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  And there he met a maiden fair,
  With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
  His heart went from him then and there,
      Alack and well-a-day.