LOUIS MOREAU GOTTSCHALK

[New Orleans—1829-1869.]

When I'm playing The Last Hope

It carries me away

To other realms than Mother Earth,

And sometimes I would stay

In Music Land with its sweet tones

That banish from our hearts

All petty horrid troubled cares

That stab us with their darts.

Gottschalk, I'm very proud to own,

Was a real Dixie lad,

And as I am a Dixie girl

This makes me very glad.

When he was only twelve years old

He went abroad to learn

How to make sweet music sounds

For which his soul did yearn.

And while abroad his parents lost

Their filthy lucre all,

And on his talents this young lad

Was then compelled to call

And ask their aid to earn his bread

And help his parents dear.

And he then traveled, so 'tis said,

In lands both far and near

Far more than any other man

In music circles known.

He gave his life to those who called,

No minutes were his own.

And so he wore out the good frame

Which nature to him gave

And when he was but forty

Was claimed by the cruel grave.