  The old log house where Margaret lived, whose roof had mossy grown, Reposed amid its clump of trees, a queen upon her throne. The landscape round smiled proudly and the flowers shed sweet perfume, When Margaret plied the shuttle of the rude old-fashioned loom. The world has grown fastidious—demands things ever new— But we could once see beauties in the rainbow's every hue; The bee could then find nectar in a common clover bloom, And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the loom. The picture that my memory paints is never seen to-day— The April sun of by-gone years has lost its brightest ray: A fancy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old room, But Margaret sang her sweetest to the music of the loom. She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's taste was plain, Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet refrain. When Margaret plied the shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom. Her warp of life was toiling hard, but love its beauteous woof. The web she wove, a character beyond the world's reproof. O girls of wealth and beauty vain, who dress in rich costume, How sweet the shuttle's music of this rare old-fashioned loom. The world may grow fastidious in art and nature too, And say there is no beauty in the rainbow's every hue; And yet the bee finds nectar in a common clover bloom, And I still love the music of the old old-fashioned loom. |
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