ROSINA VOKES.
The years may come, the years may go,
And many a song be sung
Across the footlight’s golden glow
By many a silvery tongue,
But though new divas charm the ear,
Still memory shall recall
One song we nevermore shall hear:
“His ’art was true to Poll.”
For who that hath the singer’s heart
Will care to sing that song
To those whom She, with witching art,
Had held in thrall so long?
Let other songs our pulses stir,
Delight us with them all,
But leave unsung for sake of her
“His ’art was true to Poll.”
Time was when every heart beat high,
Each lip was wreathed in smiles
To hear her sing that melody
With all her witching wiles;
But now, ’twould be no song of mirth,
’Twould bid the sad tears fall,
For though She dwells no more on earth,
Our ’arts are true to Poll.
A LITTLE MAID.
I know a maid beyond compare
For virtue sweet and beauty rare.
Her eyes are turquoise and her hair
Is sunlight netted.
She has her lovers, great and small,
The quiet student, wise and tall,
The child that hugs its battered doll,—
By them she’s petted.
Her heart seems ever warm and gay,
In smiles and kindly words, each day,
She scatters round her on life’s way
Love beyond measure.
The wild flowers, as she passes by,
Bloom sweeter for her being nigh;
The bird that mounts into the sky
Sings for her pleasure.