THERE used to be a simple song,

A relic of the days gone by,

That in the years when we were young

We sang together, you and I.

It told of garden and of grove,

Of blossoms bending on the bough,

And light and life and woman's love, -

Alas, we never sing it now!

For then, responsive to the strain,

Our hearts took up its minstrelsy,

And echoed back the blithe refrain

In all its melting melody.

We sang it in a careless mood

Beneath a sunny southern sky,

While life still seemed supremely good, -

No more we sing it, you and I.