“WHEN I CAN READ MY TITLE CLEAR.”
No sacred song has been more profanely parodied by the thoughtless, or more travestied, (if we may use so strong a word), in popular religious airs, than this golden hymn which has made Isaac Watts a benefactor to every prisoner of hope. Not 579 / 515 to mention the fancy figures and refrains of camp-meeting music, which have cheapened it, neither John Cole's “Annapolis” nor Arne's “Arlington” nor a dozen others that have borrowed these speaking lines, can wear out their association with “Auld lang Syne.” The hymn has permeated the tune, and, without forgetting its own words, the Scotch melody preforms both a social and religious mission. Some arrangements of it make it needlessly repetitious, but its pathos will always best vocalize the hymn, especially the first and last stanzas—
When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies
I'll bid farewell to every fear
And wipe my weeping eyes.
* * * * * *
There shall I bathe my weary soul
In seas of heavenly rest,
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast.