That after while the clouds will part, And then with joy the waiting heart Shall feel the light come stealing in, That drives away the cloud of sin And breaks its power. And you shall burst your chrysalis, And wing away to realms of bliss, Untrammelled, pure, divinely free, Above all earth's anxiety From that same hour.
You kin talk about yer anthems An' yer arias an' sich, An' yer modern choir-singin' That you think so awful rich; But you orter heerd us youngsters In the times now far away, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.
There was some of us sung treble An' a few of us growled bass, An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly With its 'comp'niment o' grace; There was spirit in that music, An' a kind o' solemn sway, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.
I remember oft o' standin' In my homespun pantaloons-- On my face the bronze an' freckles O' the suns o' youthful Junes-- Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel Ever chanted sich a lay As the ol' tunes we was singin' In the ol'-fashioned way.
The boys 'ud always lead us, An' the girls 'ud all chime in Till the sweetness o' the singin' Robbed the list'nin' soul o' sin; An' I used to tell the parson 'T was as good to sing as pray, When the people sung the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.
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.
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,--