He’d Nothing but His Violin by Mary Kyle Dallas

He’d nothing but his violin,
I’d nothing but my song,
But we were wed when skies were blue
And summer days were long;
And when we rested by the hedge,
The robins came and told
How they had dared to woo and win,
When early Spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dew-berries,
Or slept among the hay,
But oft the farmers’ wives at eve
Came out to hear us play;
The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,–
We could not starve for long
While my man had his violin,
And I my sweet love-song.

The world has aye gone well with us
Old man since we were one, —
Our homeless wandering down the lanes
It long ago was done.
But those who wait for gold or gear,
For houses or for kine,
Till youth’s sweet spring grows brown and sere,
And love and beauty tine,
Will never know the joy of hearts
That met without a fear,
When you had but your violin
And I a song, my dear.

From: Stevenson, Burton Egbert (ed.), The Home Book of Verse, American and English, 1580-1918. Third Edition, 1918, Henry Holt and Company: New York, pp. 1202-1203.
(https://archive.org/details/homebookofversea00stev)

Date: 18??

By: Mary Kyle Dallas (1830-1897)

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