"New hopes may bloom,
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam--"
"Not till I have ivery penny due me," asserted Mrs. Malone, turning a deaf ear to the pathos and sentiment with which the poet's beautiful voice was investing the simple words of the song.
"But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As Love's young dream--"
"I 'll prefer the rint a t'ousand times," observed Mrs. Malone, quite unaffected.
"No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As Love's young dream."
"There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."
As the words of the song died away in a sigh of sentimental melody, Moore leaned forward and touched the old woman on the shoulder, hoping that he had struck some responsive chord of memory in her recollections of long-departed youth, but he was doomed to disappointment, for she smote the table with one calloused fist and called upon the saints to witness and sustain her resolve to accept nothing but the whole amount of the money due her.
Nothing daunted, Moore slipped off the table and standing behind his determined creditor began another verse, throwing even more feeling into his voice as he proceeded:
"No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced--"