And it has turned since you and I

Set out to face the world alone;

And, in a garret near the sky,

Had scarce a crust to call our own,

But many a banquet, Barmecide;

And many a dream of hope divine,

Lie buried in the moaning tide,

That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing,

And so, I guess, I'll give it up:

Just wait a moment while I sing;

We'll have another parting cup,

And then to bed. The stars are low;

Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine;

So here she goes, and off we go

To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!


ASHES. CANNON SONG. facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail