No novel that I ever read,
Had heroine so forlorn.
Punch September 22, 1866.
Song.
My mother bids me spend my smiles,
On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles
To all the sparrows of the air.
But I’ve a darling of my own
No novel that I ever read,
Had heroine so forlorn.
Punch September 22, 1866.
Song.
My mother bids me spend my smiles,
On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles
To all the sparrows of the air.
But I’ve a darling of my own