The Solace of Song

When on my mother's arm I lay
A happy helpless thing.
Still was I glad by night and day
To hear my mother sing.

Baby, baby, do not cry,
It was a lovely lullaby.
I was a boy, a wayward boy,

And yet I still would cling,
With something like a baby joy,
To any that could sing.

Sing up, sing high, a merry lay,
For "'tis a merry holiday.
I was a youth, a sighing youth,

A zephyr of the spring,
And then I thought that all was truth
That I was fond to sing.

Sweetly, sweetly, let me die
In the soft breathing of a sigh.
But now, alas, I am a man.

And time has pruned my wing,
And I have but a little space
To flutter and to sing.

Singing to the autumn blast,
Be my sweetest song my last.
And should I live to be an old,

An old forgotten thing.
Yet never may my heart be cold
When holy maidens sing.

Holy, holy, may the Psalm
My very latest sense embalm !
When I was young

I gaily sung,
And little cared how badly ;
But sure the line

Should be polish'd fine
That sings of sorrow sadly.
The joke — the fun —

The puff — the pun —
However bad they may be,
We let them pass

As glibly as
The babble of a baby.

But who would make
A good heart ache
Should make the good heart stronger
For holy grief,
Though sharp, is brief,
And brings a joy much longer.