THE BALLAD OF THE BARYTONE,
SIMPLE barytone am I—
A thing of light and joy;
Of Rank and Fame let worldlings dream.
They have no charms for me.
Far, far above them I esteem
My own—my upper G.
Oh music! sure thou dost belong
To soft Italia's clime,
Where Life and Love and sunny Song
Seem ever in their prime.
And peacefully my days go by
As when I was a boy,
The feebler ballads of the North
Are much too cold for me;
'Tis not for these I summon forth
My own—my upper G.
I love the Bacchanalian strain
In which Parisians deal;
And that which dark-eyed sons of Spain
Attempt in Old Castille.
No matter from what favour'd spot
The melody may be;
Provided it transcendeth not
My own—my upper G.
It greets me in my festal hours,
It brings my gloom relief;
It sprinkles life with loveliest flowers
And plucks the sting from grief.
I'd smile at poverty and pain;
I'd welcome death with glee—
If till the last I might retain
My own—my upper G!