The bee could then find nectar in a common clover bloom,

And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the loom.

The picture that my memory paints is never seen to-day—

The April sun of by-gone years has lost its brightest ray:

A fancy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old room,

But Margaret sang her sweetest to the music of the loom.

She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's taste was plain,

Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet refrain.

[Pg 16]

The sunshine filled her days with joy, night's shadows brought no gloom.

When Margaret plied the shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom.

Her warp of life was toiling hard, but love its beauteous woof.

The web she wove, a character beyond the world's reproof.

O girls of wealth and beauty vain, who dress in rich costume,

How sweet the shuttle's music of this rare old-fashioned loom.

The world may grow fastidious in art and nature too,

And say there is no beauty in the rainbow's every hue;

And yet the bee finds nectar in a common clover bloom,

And I still love the music of the old old-fashioned loom.

[Pg 17]

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