Page:Twilight Hours (1868).djvu/71

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STREET MUSICIANS.

HARP.

OH the teazing, weary tune,
That my fingers will not play !
Oh the worn-out, crazy harp !
Shall I fling it quite away ?
No, poor harp, we are old friends,
Comrades, till our journey ends.

CORNET.

If ever a man was a madman,
'Twas he who essayed to rise
From a pauper life to an artist life,
'Neath the fog of the English skies.
What if the music within him
Should struggle and pant to speak ?