Music hath pow'r when lady lips
Chant forth some simple ditty
Of blighted hope or hapless love:—
Providing the lady's pretty.
Music hath pow'r at morn's bright hour,
When the lark to heav'n's gate climbs.
And, at midnight, how sweet to hear "King Cole"
Play'd on the parish chimes!
Music hath pow'r 'neath the torrid zone,
Where love in his ardour is found;