TIM DOLOR’S SONG
Oh! mother, mother, my poor heart
Is all but now a-breaking;
I’ve seen a girl with such an art
Of ways that were so taking.
I thought her smiles were meant for me;
I foolishly grew bolder,
When from that hour ’twas plain to see
Her smiles were growing colder.
I loved her so, she was so fair;
With eyes that shone so brightly,
And such a dream of golden hair
That curled and clustered lightly.
She was so fair, I loved her so—
I may have been too daring—
I told her of my love, but oh!
She said she wasn’t caring.
Oh! make my bed and make it high,
So that I there may smother
Some of these heart-aches while I lie
Among the feathers, mother.
But mother, mother, do not cry
For this, your boy’s undoing,
If ’mong the feathers I should die
I’ll not regret my wooing.
’Twas midnight; the tables were spread to regale,
Then followed a story, a song and some ale;
The “Oracle” sang of a magical stream
That murmured a strangely mysterious theme;
The shy Letha Lane and the bold Roland Rare
Gave a song and a dance that was passingly fair,
And so plaintive and sad was the sweet bachelor
When he sang of the valley he came from afar,
That Malindy confessed, though she couldn’t tell why,
It affected her so that she almost could cry.