When you sang your inconsequent rhymes
Sprung from a careless fountain:
"He met her on the mountain,
He gave her a horn to blow,
And the very last words he said to her
Were, 'Go 'long, Eliza, go.'"
Foolish,—but life was all,
And under the skilful fingers
Contours came at your call—
Art grows and time lingers;—