THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE.
A song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire,
With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire;
The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure gold,
The bellows that children love dearly to hold;
While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care,
Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air.
With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire;
The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure gold,
The bellows that children love dearly to hold;
While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care,
Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air.
The dry chestnut wood, as it snaps out a spark,
How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark;
While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises,
Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes;
And O! how forgetful a man must become,
If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum,
How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark;
While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises,
Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes;
And O! how forgetful a man must become,
If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum,
As it hangs on the crane, just over the blaze,
And swings on the hook,—like a song of old days
Will its murmur still linger on memory's ear
Till all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear!
And swings on the hook,—like a song of old days
Will its murmur still linger on memory's ear
Till all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear!
