THE OLD HAND-ORGAN.
By W. D. Nesbit.
The old hand-organ in the street
Has not the gaudy gold and gilt
The new ones have—but, oh, the sweet
Old tunes it plays with limping lilt!
“The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,”
“Jim Crow,” and “Annie Laurie,” too—
And, answering its bugle-calls,
The old times rise for me and you.
“Then You’ll Remember Me,” it plays—
And straight our memories go back
Through all the dead years’ mellow haze,
With frequent pause along the track.
And then we see the grass-grown streets,
The orchards gleaming in the sun,
Where crooning bees seek out the sweets
And shadows o’er the grasses run.
We see the flash of merry eyes;
We see the gleam of old-time smiles;
And, ere the old-time music dies.
We live again the old-time whiles.
We walk the pathway in the lane.
And day-dream as we used to then,
For on the rippling old refrain
The old times come to life again.
Play, old hand-organ, in the street!
Play every song we used to sing,
And let our hearts in cadence beat
With each glad memory they bring.
Play, in your halting, careless way,
The fine old tunes that softly tell
Of every God-made happy day
In those old times we love so well.
Baltimore American.
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