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.
"

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