  The years may come, the years may go, And many a song be sung Across the footlight’s golden glow By many a silvery tongue, But though new divas charm the ear, Still memory shall recall One song we nevermore shall hear: “His ’art was true to Poll.” For who that hath the singer’s heart Will care to sing that song To those whom She, with witching art, Had held in thrall so long? Let other songs our pulses stir, Delight us with them all, But leave unsung for sake of her “His ’art was true to Poll.” Time was when every heart beat high, Each lip was wreathed in smiles To hear her sing that melody With all her witching wiles; But now, ’twould be no song of mirth, ’Twould bid the sad tears fall, For though She dwells no more on earth, Our ’arts are true to Poll. |
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