The Barrel-Organ

There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And now it’s marching onward through the realms of old romance And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it’s roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it’s prattling softly to the moon, And all around the organ there’s a sea without a shore Of human joys and wonders and regrets; To remember and to recompense the music evermore For what the cold machinery forgets. . . . Yes; as the music changes, Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all The colours it forgets. And there La Traviata sighs Another sadder song; And there Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below Have whirled into—a dance!— Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!) The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world’s a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he’s very shy, will sing a song for London. The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you’ll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo, of owls that ogle London. For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn’t heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You’ll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:— Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)