THE BARREL-ORGAN

There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street

In the City as the sun sinks low;

And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;

And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again

In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,

And trolling out a fond familiar tune,

And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon,

And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore

Of human joys and wonders and regrets;

To remember and to recompense the music evermore
For what the cold machinery forgets. ...

*

Yes; as the music changes,

Like a prismatic glass,

It takes the light and ranges
Through all the moods that pass;
Dissects the common carnival

Of passions and regrets,

And gives the world a glimpse of all

The colours it forgets.

And there La Traviata sighs

Another sadder song;

Reprinted with permission from Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes. Copyright, 1913, Frederick A. Stokes Company.

And there Il Trovatore cries

A tale of deeper wrong;
And bolder knights to battle go

With sword and shield and lance,
Than ever here on earth below

Have whirled into a dance!—

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;

Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to

London!)

And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky

The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear him there

At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard
At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires
are out

You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for
London :-

Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;

Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)

And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, In the City as the sun sinks low;

And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,

And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never

meet,

Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,

In the land where the dead dreams go.

Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream
Of the City when the sun sinks low,

Of the organ and the monkey and the many-colored stream
On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme
And pulses with the sunset-glow?

There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen

stone

In the City as the sun sinks low;

There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone. And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have

known:

They are crammed and jammed in busses and-they're each of them alone

In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland
In the City as the sun sinks low;

And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jeweled hand
Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand

What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned,

In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying out In the City as the sun sinks low;

For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and

shout,

For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled

rout,

For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt,
For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about
In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a laborer that listens to the voices of the dead

In the City as the sun sinks low;

And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red
As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head
And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led
Through the land where the dead dreams go.

There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears, In the City as the sun sinks low;

With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and

sears,

Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears, Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years,

And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed

with tears

For the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street

In the City as the sun sinks low;

Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet

Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go.

So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,

What have you to say

When you meet the garland girls
Tripping on their way?

All around my gala hat

I wear a wreath of roses
(A long and lonely year it is
I've waited for the May!)

If any one should ask you,

The reason why I wear it is

My own love, my true love

Is coming home to-day.

And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady

(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)

Buy a bunch of violets for the lady

While the sky burns blue above:

On the other side of the street you'll find it shady

(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)