The weekly tribune. [volume] (Great Falls, Mont.) 1891-1894, 1894-11-02
THE OLD SONGS.

Whatever the Vogue of a Style In Music
They Never Lose Favor.
It was a hotel p%arlor; q brilliant pi-
anist had just rendered one of Wagner's
most difficult pieces, and a murmur of
we'll bred applause followed. Then
very softly and tenderly, like q sweetly
tremulous old voice reciting pathetic
memories, the ivory keys sent the plain
tive melody of "Auld Lang Syne'' sigh.
Ing through the room. The idle chatter
ceased. every mind was busy with bit
ter sweet memories, and the air was full
Of tho scent of vanished clover, the
warm fragrance of newly tossed hay,
the echo Of babbling brooks. The simple
tune knocked at the door Of every heart,
and the ghosts of dead days came troop
ing forth in answer.
A stout dame on the musicians left
looked away through the open window,
beyond the moon flooded hills, and q
sigh scintillated the jet upon her ample
bosom. She had gone back to q sum-
mer eve years ago and was dressed
in a faded pink calico and Tapping sun.
bonnet again. Her bare toes sank deep
in the yellow dust of the country road
as she drove the cows home through the
lonely, cool shadows. John Edward,
freckled faced and honest eyed, came
sheepishly out of the woods and Joined
her, and the cows were late that night,
for what has young love to do with
time?
A dignified old gentleman beside her
blew his nose and incidentally wiped
his eyes. He was thinking of the morn
ing when he went out to seek his for.
tune and turned under the windy or
chard trees to a wave of last farewell to
a mother, who stood in the door with
her check apron to her eyes. He had
whistled "Auld Lang Syne'' to keep
back the rising sobs as he trudged upon
his way.
Not a word was spoken when the last
memory haunted note died away in ST.
lence, but every one had paid the tribute
Of a tear to "Auld Lang Syne."
An almost forgotten poet, Robert
Hinckly Messenger. quantity wishes for
old wood to burn, old books to read and
old friends to talk with in an ideal old
age, and he might also have added old
tunes to be played in the long twilights
in which he dozed and dreamed in an easy
chair. 1t is a fact that none of the pop
ular songs Of late years survives a mayfy
existence. They catch the lip, but do not
hold the heart, and are written to cater
to the popular fancy, unlike the old
tunes which are birth marked with the
joys and woes of the human race.
Music hall melodies may come and
go and be forgotten, but as long as a
sprig Of heather blossoms OH Scottish
moor Highland Mary will bring
tears to Scottish eyes, and the cruelty
Of Barbara Allen" will 90 down
through all the ages while lads go court
ing and lasses are capricious. Every
sailor leaves a "Black Eyed Susan in
port behind him, and there is a chord
in every bosom set to the wanderers
immortal cry, "Home, Sweet Home"
annie Laurie will live as long as the
English language. Neither a Handel
nor a Beethoven composed the Mar
seillaise," yet it became the battlecry
of a nation. 1t is not to the music of tho
symphony societies that the dying turn,
but to Rock Of Ages"
Many of Gilbert & Sullivan's catchy
melodies are borrowed from old ballads,
and they have even Mother Goose" to
thank for some of their success.
Strauss may set the feet to dancing,
Wagner tickle the brain and Mozart
please the ear, but nothing can touch
the heart like the old tunes. -Philadel-
phia Press.