Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her belov'd dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,...
The sunshine streaming through the stain'd glass Touched her with rosy colors as she stood, The maiden Queen of all the British realm, In the old Abbey on that soft June day....
When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun. No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,...