Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797 – 1839)
Popular miscellaneous writer best known for his songs.
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Why don't the men propose, Mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Friends depart, and memory takes them
To her caverns, pure and deep.
Oh no! we never mention her,
Her name is never heard;
My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word.
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall.
The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.
Oh, I have roamed o'er many lands,
And many friends I've met;
Not one fair scene or kindly smile
Can this fond heart forget.
Those that have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! naught but misery brings!
We met,—'t was in a crowd.
I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.
She wore a wreath of roses
The first night that we met.
Oh pilot, 't is a fearful night!
There's danger on the deep.
Surely 't is better, when summer is over
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Gayly the troubadour
Touched his guitar.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder:
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!
Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
Fear not, but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou may'st be.
My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret
To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met.
I've now got the music book ready,
Do sit up and sing like a lady
A recitative from Tancredi,
And something about "Palpiti!"
Sing forte when first you begin it,
Piano the very next minute,
They'll cry "What expression there's in it!"
Don't sing English ballads to me!
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