FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT
[Born in Vienna, Austria—1797-1828.]
A poor schoolmaster was his pa,
A common cook his scolding ma,
Who was not one bit glad to see
Her thirteenth child a boy wee,
Who came one blustering wintry day
Within her crowded house to stay.
Though Franz was cold and hungry too
The Music Sprites his soul would woo
And oft he wrote as in a trance
Some lovely song in which perchance
The singer seemed as blithe could be
And filled with joyful ecstasy.
He loved a maid of high degree
With whom he could not married be
And while for this maid Caroline
His beating heart with love did pine
In one short year this song bird wrote
Two symphonies in every note,
Five operas and many more
Airs that stamp of genius bore,
One hundred thirty-seven songs
Depicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.
Of these immortal songs 'tis said
Six were sold for a loaf of bread.
Full ten great symphonies he made
But no one to them honor paid
While he was yet upon this earth,
And never courted by True Mirth,
But ever hungry, weak and ill
Though working with his great soul's will
Until the age of thirty-one
When Death said "Rest, your work is done."