Songs We Like to Sing


Published 1912
The Heart Bow'd Down

               W. W. Balfe

The heart bow'd down by weight of woe, to weakest hopes will cling
To thought and impulse while they flow, that can no comfort bring,
That can, that can no comfort bring;
With those exciting scenes will blend, o'er pleasure's pathway thrown; but mem'ry is the only friend that grief can call its own,
That grief can call its own, that grief can call its own.

The mind will, in its worst despair, still ponder o'er the past,
On moments of delight that were too beautiful to last,
That were to beautiful, to beautiful to last;
To long departed years extend its visions with them flown; for mem'ry is the only friend that grief can call its own,
That grief can call its own, that grief can call its own.








© 1999, Lynn Waterman