The Record

Fearing that she might go one day With some fine fellow of her choice, I called her from her childish play, And made a record of her voice. And now that she is truly gone, I hear it sweet and crystal clear From out my wheezy gramophone: "I love you, Daddy dear." Indeed it's true she went away, But Oh she went all, all alone; Into the dark she went for aye, Poor little mite! ere girlhood grown. Ah that I could with her have gone! But this is all I have to show - A ghost voice on a gramophone: "Dear Dad, I love you so." The saddest part of loss 'tis said, Is that time tempers our regret; But that is treason to the dead - I'll not forget, I'll not forget. Sole souvenir of golden years, 'Twas best to break this disc in two, And spare myself a spate of tears . . . But this I cannot do. So I will play it every day, And it will seem that she is near, And once again I'll hear her say: I love you so, Oh Daddy dear." And then her kiss - a stab of woe. The record ends . . . I breathe a plea: "Oh God, speed me to where I know Wee lass, you wait for me."