Explore "Mary Smith" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith, / There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith; / And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl, / And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl; / Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place, / Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face, / And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow / I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.
I saw her home from singing school -- she warbled like a bird. / A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard. / She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass, / And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place; / The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance, / For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance; / And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know / I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.