Julia A. Moore

My Infant Days

      AIR --"TheRain upon the Roof"

When I was a little infant,
      And I lay in mother's arms,
Then I felt the gentle pressure
      Of a loving mother's arms.
"Go to sleep my little baby,
      Go to sleep," mamma would say;
"Oh, will not my little lady
      Go to sleep for ma to-day."

Oh! my parents loved me dearly,
      For I was their eldest born,
And they always called me Julia
      In a mild and loving form.
My parents will not forget me,
      Though I married and left their home,
For they can remember clearly
      How with them I once did roam.

Oh! my mother, how I love her,
      Though her head is growing gray,
For in fancy I can see her
      Bending o'er me night and day,
As she did when I was little,
      Watching me in sleep and play --
Mother now is growing feeble,
      Now I will her love repay.

Oh! my father, how I love him,
      For he has worked hard for me,
For to earn my food and clothing,
      In my little infancy.
And oh, I will not forget him,
      While on earth I do remain --
May the God of heaven bless him
      In this world of grief and pain.

To my friends and critics

Come all you friends and critics,
And listen to my song,
A word I will say to you,
It will not take me long,
The people talks about me,
They've nothing else to do
But to criticise their neighbors,
And they have me now in view.

Perhaps they talk for meanness,
And perhaps it is in jest,
If they leave out their freeness
It would suit me now the best,
To keep the good old maxim
I find it hard to do,
That is to do to others
As you wish them do to you.

Perhaps you've read the papers
Containing my interview;
I hope you kind good people
Will not believe it true.
Some Editors of the papers
They thought it would be wise
To write a column about me,
So they filled it up with lies.

The papers have ridiculed me
A year and a half or more.
Such slander as the interview
I never read before.
Some reporters and editors
Are versed in telling lies.
Others it seems are willing
To let industry rise.

The people of good judgment
Will read the papers through,
And not rely on its truth
Without a candid view.
My first attempt at literature
Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,
I wrote that book without a thought
Of the future, or of fame.

Dear Friends, I write for money,
With a kind heart and hand,
I wish to make no Enemies
Throughout my native land.
Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,
And lay my pen aside,
Between me and my critics
I leave you to decide.

Sketch of Lord Byron's life

"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
      A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
      Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
      And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
      Ah, strange was his lot.

The character of "Lord Byron"
      Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
      And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
      Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
      By his own misdeeds.

Generous and tender hearted,
       Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
      A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
      With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
      He could use at his will.

He was a sad child of nature,
      Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
      For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
       Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
       Lived, unappreciated, man.

Yet at the age of 24,
      "Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
      Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
      They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
       Sometimes would him extol.

Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
      Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
      So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
      This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
      He might die, sword in hand.

He had joined the Grecian Army;
      This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
      And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
      Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
      Of the nineteenth century.

The Burial in the snow

How well do I remember
      Of a burial in the snow,
On a winter's evening
      Some fifteen years ago;
The ground was covered over
      With the beautiful crystal snow,
And it glistened in the moonlight,
      Like diamonds all aglow.

It was a pleasant evening,
      That merry Christmas eve;
And I never can forget, how
      The frost hung on the tree.
The moon was shining clearly,
      And the sleigh-bells rang so sweet;
Ah, it was splendid sleighing,
      The snow was two feet deep.

My grandparents were living
      Some two miles then away,
My parents went to see them,
      To spend the holiday.
I went with my kind parents,
      For the evening was sublime,
To see dear aunts and uncles,
      And have a merry time,

I saw the beaming faces
      Of my grandparents dear,
As they met us on the door-step,
      With welcome words of cheer.
In fancy I can see them
      As in the days of yore,
When they welcome home their children
      Through the old familiar door.

The banquet board that evening,
      Was filled with cake and wine,
Delicious fruits and oysters
      That came from foreign clime.
It was a merry party
      That met once more to roam,
My grandparents were happy,
      Their children were all home.

Grandpapa said, "dear children,
      Lay the tea things aside,
And some of you get ready
      To take a pleasant ride.
The moon is shining clearly,
      The evening is sublime,
O'er the crystal snow we'll glide,
      And have a jolly time."

Hats and cloaks were soon put on,
      By those who wish to go,
They were wrapped up snug and warm,
      For a sleigh ride o'er the snow.
Their hearts were light and gleeful,
       They rode away with ease,
I never can forget them,
      Or that merry Christmas eve.

On that beautiful evening,
      They rode five miles away,
O'er hills, and dales, and frozen snow,
       With prospects bright and gay.
They came to their journey's end,
       And soon were homeward bound,
A more joyous, happy band
      Was nowhere to be found,

The merry sleigh bells ringing
      Out on the midnight air,
And merry voices singing
      All "right side up with care! "
The horses were high-spirited,
       They ran away, and lo!
Broke loose from the sleigh, and left
      It buried in the snow.

The people of that party
      Lay scattered all around,
Some were frightened, others laughed,
      To think it happened so,
That the end of their sleigh ride
      Was a burial in the snow.

Yet they were gay and happy,
      The bright moon o'er them shone,
And laughing o'er their sleigh ride,
       They all went trudging home.
Some of those friends are dead and gone,
      That met in that old home,
And never will we meet again,
      Around that dear hearth stone.

Dear Love, Do you Remember?

Dearest one, do you remember,
      As we sat side by side,
How you told me that you loved me,
      Asked me to be your bride.
And you told me we'd be happy,
      Through all the years to come,
If we ever would prove faithful,
      As in the days when we were young.

Oh! how well do I remember,
      The kind and loving words,
And now as I sat dreaming,
      The thoughts my memory stirs.
But the days have passed before me,
      And the scenes of long ago,
But I can never forget the
      Days that have passed o'er.

Oh! how clearly I remember
      The days when we were young,
How we would tell to each other
      Of happy times to come,
And as we would sit together,
      That dear loved one and I,
Oh, sat dreaming of the future,
      And childhood days gone by.

Dearest love, do you remember
      The first time that we met --
Our youthful days have gone, love,
      I hope you love me yet,
Now we are growing old, love,
      Our heads will soon be gray,
May we ever love each other
      Till from earth we pass away.