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Warning
Now when we take breath from songs at last, to be what the rest call dead,
They'll sigh, "Ah, noble the songs they made, and noble the jests they said!"
And they will inscribe on our monuments regret that our day is done—
But we will be off in an excellent place, and having most excellent fun—
They'll sigh, "Ah, noble the songs they made, and noble the jests they said!"
And they will inscribe on our monuments regret that our day is done—
But we will be off in an excellent place, and having most excellent fun—
Oh, very proud from a golden cloud you'll stride in your crown and wings,
Till you hear my little earthly giggle behind my gold harpstrings;
And you'll toss your gilt theorbo down on the nearest star or moon,
And carry me off on a comet's back for a long, wild afternoon;
Till you hear my little earthly giggle behind my gold harpstrings;
And you'll toss your gilt theorbo down on the nearest star or moon,
And carry me off on a comet's back for a long, wild afternoon;
And while we're lashing the comet up till it misses St. Michael's Way,
And laugh to think how the seraphs blink, and what the good saints will say,
We'll heave a little sigh of content—or a wistful one, maybe—
To know that I never can marry you, and you never can marry me!
And laugh to think how the seraphs blink, and what the good saints will say,
We'll heave a little sigh of content—or a wistful one, maybe—
To know that I never can marry you, and you never can marry me!
