James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet, was recently asked
to name his favorite poem,
and responded by giving the following bit of fugitive verse,
written many years ago, the
author of which is unknown:
He'd nothing but his violin.
I’d nothing but my
song,
But we were wed when skies were blue
And summer days were
long.
And when we rested by the hedge,
The robins came and
told
How they had dared to woo and win
When early spring
was cold.
We sometimes supped on dewberries,
Or slept
among the hay,
But oft the farmers' wives at eve
Came out to
hear us play
The rare old tunes- the dear old tunes-
We could
not starve for long
While my man had his violin
And I my
sweet love song.
The world has aye gone well with us,
Old man,
since we were one-
Our homeless wandering down the lanes-
It long ago
was done.
But those who wait for gold or gear,
For houses
and for kine,
Till youth's sweet spring grows brown and sere.
And love
and beauty tine,
Will never know the joy of hearts
That met
without a fear,
When you had but your violin
And I a
song, my dear.
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