Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Mary KyleDallas

1181 He ’d Nothing but His Violin

HE ’D nothing but his violin,

I ’d nothing but my song,

But we were wed when skies were blue

And summer days were long;

And when we rested by the hedge,

The robins came and told

How they had dared to woo and win,

When early Spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dew-berries,

Or slept among the hay,

But oft the farmers’ wives at eve

Came out to hear us play;

The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,—

We could not starve for long

While my man had his violin,

And I my sweet love-song.