SONGS WHICH MY 
 YOUTH SUNG 
 
 JOHN BENNETT 
 
 / 
 
 CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA 
 MCMXIV 
 

 COPYRIGHT BY JOHN BENNETT 
 
 20th OF FEBRUARY 
 
 1914 
 
 FEB 24 1914 
 
 'CIA369131 
 
SONGS WHICH MY YOUTH SUNG 
 
 IN A ROSE GARDEN. 
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart, 
 
 We shall not care at all. 
 It will not matter then a whit, 
 
 The honey or the gall. 
 The summer days that we have known 
 Will all forgotten be and flown; 
 The garden will be overgrown 
 
 Where now the roses fall. 
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart, 
 
 We shall not mind the pain. 
 The throbbing crimson tide of life 
 
 Will not have left a stain. 
 The song we sing together, dear, 
 The dream we dream together here, 
 Will mean no more than means a tear 
 
 Amid a summer rain. 
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart, 
 
 The grief will all be o'er; 
 The sea of care will surge in vain 
 
 Upon a careless shore. 
 These glasses we turn down, to-day, 
 Here at the parting of the way: 
 We shall be wineless then as they, 
 
 And will not mind it more. 
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart. 
 
 We '11 neither know nor care 
 What came of all life's bitterness 
 
 Or followed love's despair. 
 Then fill the glasses up again. 
 And kiss me through the rose-leaf ram; 
 We'll build one castle more in Spain, 
 
 And dream one more dream there. 
 
GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR, TO-DAY! 
 
 If there be graveyards in the heart 
 
 From which no roses spring, 
 A place of wrecks and old gray tombs 
 
 From which no birds take wing, 
 Where linger buried hopes and dreams 
 
 Like ghosts among the graves: 
 Why, buried dreams are dismal things, 
 
 And lonely ghosts are knaves! 
 
 If Life's a Ue, and Love a cheat. 
 As I have heard men say, 
 
 Then here's a health to fond deceit — 
 God bless you, dear, to-day! 
 
 If there come dreary winter days 
 
 When summer roses fall 
 And lie, forgot, in withered drifts 
 
 Along the garden wall; 
 If all the wreaths a lover weaves 
 
 Turn thorns upon the brow, — 
 Then out upon the silly fool 
 
 Who is not happy now! 
 
 If Life's a lie, and Love a cheat, 
 As I have heard men say. 
 
 Then here's a health to fond deceit — 
 God bless you, dear, to-day! 
 
 For if we cannot keep the past, 
 
 Why care for what's to come? 
 The instant's prick is all that stings, 
 
 And then the place is numb: 
 If Life's a lie, and Love a cheat, 
 
 As I have heard men say, 
 Then here 's a health to fond deceit — 
 
 God bless you, dear, to-day! 
 
HER ANSWER: BUT JUST TO-DAY. 
 
 To-day, dear heart, but just to-day, 
 
 The sunshine over all 
 The roses crimsoning the air 
 
 Along the garden wall! 
 Then let the dream and dreamer die; 
 
 Whate'er shall be, shall be — 
 To-day will still be mine and thine 
 
 To all eternity. 
 
 And, oh the little, little while 
 
 This world shall last for us! 
 There is no waj* to keep it, dear, 
 
 But just to spend it thus. 
 There is no hand may stop the sand 
 
 From flowing fast awaj^, 
 But his who turns the whole glass down 
 
 And dreams 'tis all to-day. 
 
 For oh, there is no glory, dear. 
 
 When all the world is done; 
 There is no splendor lasteth out 
 
 The setting of the sun; 
 There is no thing that lasts, not one, 
 
 When we have turned to clay, 
 But this: You loved me — all the rest 
 
 Fades with the world away. 
 
THE LOVE OF A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 I would rather be loved by you, dear, 
 
 Than by all of the world beside; 
 I would rather one day with you, dear, 
 
 On the brink of a summer tide, 
 With a song we could sing together 
 
 And a crystal of ruddy wine, 
 Than a century's summer weather 
 
 And another love than thine. 
 
 I would rather be crowned with you, dear, 
 
 Than to king with the fairest queen. 
 I would rather be poor with you, dear. 
 
 'Neath the shadowy beechen green, 
 With your cheek on my own cheek dreaming, 
 
 And your kisses upon my face. 
 Than to lie, amid treasures gleaming, 
 
 In another love's embrace. 
 
 I would rather be near to you. dear, 
 
 Than to win an immortal name. 
 I would rather be dear to you, dear. 
 
 Than to leave an undying fame 
 In the mouths of a mighty throng, dear, 
 
 For man's memory fades away. 
 And there's nothing that lasts so long, dear heart, 
 
 As the love of a summer day. 
 
THE ABBOT OF DERRY: A ROUND 
 
 Oh, the Abbot of Derry hates Satan and Sin: 
 'Tis strange of him, very — they're both his blood-kin: 
 And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry; 
 And bury him deep, say I! 
 
 Oh, the Abbot of Derry hates Women and Wine: 
 'Tis kind of him, very, to leave 'em all mine! 
 
 And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry; 
 And bury him deep, say I! 
 
 Says the Abbot of Derry : ' ' Tomorrow ye die. ' ' 
 "Eat, drink, and be merry!" say Dolly and I; 
 And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry; 
 And bury him deep, say I! 
 
 Oh, the Abbot of Derry says "All flesh is grass:" 
 Sure, the Abbot should know, for the Abbot's an ass . 
 And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry; 
 And bury him deep, say I! 
 
OVER THE ROSE-LEAVES: "SUPPOSE, DEAR HEART, 
 SUPPOSE!' 
 
 One thing is certain and the rest is Lies: 
 The Flower that once has bloomed forever dies. 
 
 Omar Khayyam. 
 
 Why did you say you loved me then, 
 
 If this must be the end? 
 Can so much more than lover be 
 
 So far much less than friend? 
 You say, ' ' Suppose we had not met 
 
 Beneath this Provence rose: 
 Suppose we had not met at all ! " 
 
 Suppose? dear heart, suppose? 
 
 Suppose, beside some common road 
 
 There bloomed a common rose. 
 As this one, crimsoning the air 
 
 Within this garden close. 
 Suppose you plucked it, passing by. 
 
 And spread its petals wide, 
 Until the sweetness of its heart 
 
 Filled all the country-side! 
 
 Suppose you wore it on your breast 
 
 One careless summer day; 
 Suppose you kissed it once or twice 
 
 To pass the time away; 
 Then tore it slowly leaf from leaf. 
 
 As you have torn ttfis rose. 
 Until you bared its very soul: 
 
 Suppose, . . . and iust suppose! 
 
 Suppose you stripped its very soul 
 
 Down to life's golden core, 
 Till heart and life and soul were yours, 
 
 And there was nothing more 
 A rose could give to please your sense 
 
 Or win a passing smile; 
 Then dropped it in the pathway thus 
 
 No longer worth your while! 
 
 And then, suppose these scattered leaves 
 
 Wf^re days we two have shared! 
 You need not say you counted them; 
 
 You need not say you cared . . . 
 Could all the counting-, all the care, 
 
 Or all my foolish pain 
 Put that one rose together, dear, 
 
 Or make it bloom again' 
 
THE SONGS THAT MY MOTHER SUNG. 
 
 Sing me the songs that my mother sung; 
 
 For the dear old tunes are best, 
 And their words are sweet on my tired tongue; 
 
 I am weary of all the rest. 
 Sing one of the songs my mother sung 
 
 As I nodded by her knee, 
 And my drowsy head into slumber swung 
 
 With that quaint old melody: 
 
 "Then hang up the fiddle and the bow; 
 
 Lay down the shovel and the hoe; 
 
 There 's no more hard work for poor old Uncle 
 
 Ned, 
 'Cause he's gone where the good niggers go!" 
 
 Sing me the songs that my mother sung 
 
 Before her hair turned white; 
 When her face was as fair as a rose-bud flung 
 
 On the breeze of a summer night. 
 Sing me the songs that she used to sing, 
 
 With a quaver in each tone. 
 When the summer twilight was vanishing, 
 
 And the summer day was done: 
 
 ' ' Down in the cane-brake, close by the mill. 
 
 There lived a yellow girl . . her name was Nancy Till. 
 
 I told her that I loved her. She said she loved 
 
 me, too: 
 So we both loved each other: we had nothing else 
 
 to do! 
 
 Come, love, come; and go along with me, 
 
 And I will take you down to Tennessee!" 
 
 Those are the songs I would rather hear 
 
 Than all that you sing to-day; 
 For they ring in my memory faint but clear 
 
 From that Baby-land, far away, 
 Out in the shadows of Long Ago, 
 
 Where their melody first rung 
 For a little fellow who loved them so . . . 
 
 The old songs that my mother sung: 
 
"Oh, when I'm dead and gone to rest, 
 
 Lay the banjo by my side; 
 Let the Possum and Coon to the funeral come, 
 
 For they're my only pride. 
 And when I am taking my sweet repose 
 
 I'll dream forever more 
 That you've buried my bones in Old Virginny, 
 On Old Virginia's shore!" 
 
 10 
 
THE DEAR LONG AGO. 
 
 When the low light fades out 
 
 Of my room, 
 And the shadows about 
 
 Flit in gloom; 
 When the dying coals glow 
 
 Dimly blue 
 On the air, 
 And my thoughts backward go, 
 
 I see you, 
 
 Standing there, 
 As you stood in the dear long ago. 
 
 Then the dream and the day 
 
 Come again. 
 With the breath of the hay 
 
 And the rain 
 In the air, where the blue 
 
 Shadows fall 
 
 On the gold, 
 And the turtle-doves coo 
 
 On the wall 
 
 Through the wold, 
 As they did when I wandered with you. 
 
 And there comes a dull ache 
 
 At the last. 
 For my little love's sake 
 
 And the past. 
 I still long for you so 
 
 In despair 
 
 And regret ; 
 I would give life to know 
 
 If you care 
 
 For me yet 
 As you did in the dear long ago? 
 
 11 
 
TIS DONE! 
 
 Sadly we come for you; 
 Muffled the drum for you; 
 Voices are dumb for you; 
 
 Bitter tears run. 
 Love has forsaken you; 
 Hate cannot waken you; 
 Azrael has taken you; 
 
 Night has begun. 
 Toil will not hurry you; 
 Care will not worry you; 
 After we bury you, 
 
 Life's struggle done, 
 In the grave wrought for you; 
 Men will grieve naught for you; 
 Scarce have a thought for you, 
 Under the sun. 
 
 "►U;Hr 
 
 ^12 
 

 
 

 
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