The Republican journal., 1912-11-21
An Old Song.

1t had been pleasant drive over the Maine
roads. AS the day was drawing to close the
chilly air warned US that the summer time
with its loiterings and Gypsyings had passed
and that autumn was at hand. Beautiful New
England autumn! So mild and tender in the
warmth of its shortening days. SO stern and
rigorous in the chill of its lengthening nights
so steathily and busiy merging itself into
winters frozen earth and drifting SHOWS
The nearest hotel was several miles away
and was off our road; but we were in hospita-
Bile neighborhood, for when we asked at large
farmhouse standing in the shadow of Mt. WAL
do if we might have nights lodging for the
three people IN our party. and stabling for our
horse. we were made cordially welcome. 1t
was large family, and from the grandfather
down to five year old Doris they were busy,
jolly and entertaining Before we had been
long among them it transpired that the pater-
nal grandfather of one of our party had been
an honored friend of the household, and that
when Justice of the Peace he had performed
the marriage ceremony of the older people;
then followed many question, many an anec-
dote, and many a Renaissance.
So it was that when later in the evening, in
the cosy little parlor, we listened to the sing
ing of familiar hymns and songs it was with
hearts attuned to tender memories and to
thoughts of the long ago. In this mood it was
with indescribable delight that in turning the
leaves of an old song book, we came upon
song which from childhood we had heard sung
by what Was tn us the sweefast voi,a in oil
the world-our mothers voice. As we read
the words we seemed to hear once more the
richness of its tones, rising birdlike on the
high notes, with the purity which it had not
lost even in her eighty first year, when she
often delighted our ears with some quaint old
ballad or hymn.
Knowing that many besides ourselves have
memories of these old songs, and have listen
ed with equal pleasure to the voice of some
dear singer, am sending to The Journal the
words of the ballad which we saw for the first
time in print on that evening, and which one
of our newly found friends, kindly copied and
mailed to US later. R. T. NEWELL
ILL HANG MY HARP ON A WILLOW TREE.
I'll hang my harp on willow tree
III off to the wars again;
My peaceful home has no charm for me,
The battlefield no pain;
The lady love will soon be bride
With diadem on her brow.
On! why did she fatter my boyish pride,
She's going to leave me now.
She took me away from my warlike lord.
She gave me silken suit;
l thought no more of my masters sword
When played on my mistress lutte;
She seemed to think me boy above
Her pages of low degree
Oh! had but loved with boyish love,
1t would have been better for me.
Then I'll hide in my heart ev'ry selfish care,
The nope of my life I'll resign;
When smiles shall greet the bridal pair,
I'll hasten to give them mine;
I'll laugh and I'll sing, tho my heart may
bleed,
And I'll walk in the festive train,
And if l survive it I'll mount my steed,
And I'll off to the wars again.
But one golden tress of her heir I'll Irvine.
In my helmets sable plume,
And then on the field of Palestine
I'll seek an early doom;
And if by the Saracens' hand l fall,
Mid the noble and the brave,
A tear from my lsdy-love is all
ask for the warriors grave.