From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 23, 1915. By Mary Kyle Dallas.
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 farmer’s 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 wanderings 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.