IDA MAY

IT is twenty years ago, Ida May. It is twenty years ago
That we sat beneath the moon
In the pleasant month of June,
In the shadow of a hawthorn white as snow, Ida May.

’Twas a pleasant, foolish time, Ida May. ’Twas a pleasant, foolish time,
Watching thus the golden gleam
Of the moonlight on the stream,
While we listened to the pleasant village chime, Ida May.

We are older now than then, Ida May. We are older now than then,
And have wisdom, it may be.
But the happy hearts, and free,
Blithesome laughter we can never feel again, Ida May.

Time will run us down at last, Ida May. Time will run us down at last.
I’ve a slight rheumatic twinge,
And your tresses have the tinge
Of a color you’ll be apt to find is fast, Ida May. Of a color you’ll be apt to find is fast.