A poor schoolmaster was his pa,

A common cook his scolding ma,

Who was not one bit glad to see

Her thirteenth child a boy wee,

Who came one blustering wintry day

Within her crowded house to stay.

Though Franz was cold and hungry too

The Music Sprites his soul would woo

And oft he wrote as in a trance

Some lovely song in which perchance

The singer seemed as blithe could be

And filled with joyful ecstasy.

He loved a maid of high degree

With whom he could not married be

And while for this maid Caroline

In one short year this song bird wrote

Two symphonies in every note,

Five operas and many more

Airs that stamp of genius bore,

One hundred thirty-seven songs

Depicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.

Of these immortal songs 'tis said

Six were sold for a loaf of bread.

Full ten great symphonies he made

But no one to them honor paid

While he was yet upon this earth,

And never courted by True Mirth,

But ever hungry, weak and ill

Though working with his great soul's will

Until the age of thirty-one

When Death said "Rest, your work is done."