Life is a blossom of sorrow and fun

And Beethoven's sorrow was early begun.

His father was cruel, no pleasure he had,

No wonder that much of his music is sad.

He lived in Vienna, which seldom he left;

Of most earthly joys this poor soul bereft.

The gods had deprived him of beauty of face,

His manners atrocious brought him disgrace.

No money had he and for many a year

Of music he loved no sound could he hear.

No wife to adore him, no children had he

To bring to his home "The Good Fairy Glee."

In rags and in sorrow and always alone

He walked in the fields where, with pitying moan,

He prayed he might hear the song of the trees

His prayers were not answered and no sound he heard

Of brooklets or breezes or sweet singing bird.

No wonder from earth he was glad to depart,

Dying, 'tis said, from a real broken heart.