I
when darby saw the setting sun,
He swung his scythe, and home he run,
Sat down, drank off his quart, and said,
“My work is done, I ’ll go to bed.”
“My work is done!” retorted Joan,
“My work is done! your constant tone;
But hapless woman ne’er can say,
‘My work is done,’ till judgment day.
You men can sleep all night, but...
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Darby, dear, we are old and gray,
Fifty years since our wedding day,
Shadow and sun for every one
As the years roll on;
Darby, dear, when the world went wry,
Hard and sorrowful then was I—
Ah! lad, how you cheered me then,
Things will be better, sweet wife again!
Always the same, Darby, my own,
Always the same to your old...