THE OLD PICTURE-BOOK.
It was an old old picture-book,Full of the merriest talesOf mermaids fair with golden hair,And ships with silver sails;Of fairies light who danced at night,Of goblins on the stair,And many a knight in armour brightWho fought for ladies fair.It was only a battered picture-book,But ’twas worth its weight in gold,For it spoke to the children’s tender hearts,And its tales were never old.It is an old old picture-book,Battered, and torn, and brown;But why does the mother sit and sigh?Why do her tears run down?She listens through the long long eves,She waits for the opening door,But the little hands that turned the leavesWill turn them again no more.It is only a battered picture-book,But she cannot lay it by,For hearts may change, but a mother’s loveIs a love that cannot die!
It was an old old picture-book,Full of the merriest talesOf mermaids fair with golden hair,And ships with silver sails;Of fairies light who danced at night,Of goblins on the stair,And many a knight in armour brightWho fought for ladies fair.It was only a battered picture-book,But ’twas worth its weight in gold,For it spoke to the children’s tender hearts,And its tales were never old.It is an old old picture-book,Battered, and torn, and brown;But why does the mother sit and sigh?Why do her tears run down?She listens through the long long eves,She waits for the opening door,But the little hands that turned the leavesWill turn them again no more.It is only a battered picture-book,But she cannot lay it by,For hearts may change, but a mother’s loveIs a love that cannot die!
It was an old old picture-book,Full of the merriest talesOf mermaids fair with golden hair,And ships with silver sails;Of fairies light who danced at night,Of goblins on the stair,And many a knight in armour brightWho fought for ladies fair.It was only a battered picture-book,But ’twas worth its weight in gold,For it spoke to the children’s tender hearts,And its tales were never old.
It was an old old picture-book,
Full of the merriest tales
Of mermaids fair with golden hair,
And ships with silver sails;
Of fairies light who danced at night,
Of goblins on the stair,
And many a knight in armour bright
Who fought for ladies fair.
It was only a battered picture-book,
But ’twas worth its weight in gold,
For it spoke to the children’s tender hearts,
And its tales were never old.
It is an old old picture-book,Battered, and torn, and brown;But why does the mother sit and sigh?Why do her tears run down?She listens through the long long eves,She waits for the opening door,But the little hands that turned the leavesWill turn them again no more.It is only a battered picture-book,But she cannot lay it by,For hearts may change, but a mother’s loveIs a love that cannot die!
It is an old old picture-book,
Battered, and torn, and brown;
But why does the mother sit and sigh?
Why do her tears run down?
She listens through the long long eves,
She waits for the opening door,
But the little hands that turned the leaves
Will turn them again no more.
It is only a battered picture-book,
But she cannot lay it by,
For hearts may change, but a mother’s love
Is a love that cannot die!