The sun crept lower in the sky, the world lay sweet and fair, A bird trilled softly from its throat a song that was a prayer. The old man looked up at his wife, with tears his cheeks were wet, “Ay, there are many things,” he said, “we may not, dear, forget. We’re growing old, wife, like the day our sun sinks in the west, I’ll say with him we both loved well, _The Lord shall have my best_.”
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September comes across the hills Her blue veil softly flowing, Her flagons deep of wine she spills, And sets the old world glowing.
Yon robin’s piping her a tune-- How runs his carol tender? “I knew you once as pretty June, When you were young and slender.
And though you’ve grown a gracious thing, Full-blossomed, grand and stately, I still can see a hint of spring-- Your youth’s but left you lately.”
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” Was there ever a song so gay, As the song the meadow-lark sings to me When we meet in the fields each day?
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” Then pauses a moment to look At soft green leaves on shrub and tree, And buttercups gay in the brook.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” No more weather gloomy and sad, Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year! Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you glad?
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” Isn’t it blue--the sky above? Watch ’em, watch ’em, these mates of mine, Building their nests, and making love.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” Ho! I sing it morning and night, Never were meadows quite so green, Never were posies quite so bright.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_” Out rings his song so sweet and shrill, Its gladness catches you unawares, With its gurgle, and laugh, and thrill.
My lady Mildred tells me oft That she is mistress now of me, Her voice is very sweet and soft, But, ah, an autocrat is she.
Go, say the red lips, and I go, Come, and I hasten to her side, Her warm smile sets my heart aglow, Her quaintness is my joy and pride.
I used to say in phrases fine That I was master of myself, The proud boast is no longer mine; I’m subject to a wilful elf.
My Mildred with the rose-leaf face, A tyrant spirit sways your breast, For humbly though I sue your grace, You will not grant a moment’s rest.
