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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  1181 He ’d Nothing but His Violin

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Mary KyleDallas

1181 He ’d Nothing but His Violin

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 dew-berries,

Or slept among the hay,

But oft the farmers’ wives at eve

Came out to hear us play;

The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,—

We could not starve for long

While my man had his violin,

And I my sweet love-song.