The old log house where Margaret lived whose roof had mossy grown,
Reposed amid its clump of trees, a queen upon her throne.
The landscape round smiled proudly and the flowers shed sweet perfume,
When Margaret plied the shuttles of the rude old-fashioned loom.
The world has grown fastidious—demands things ever new—
But we could once see beauties in the rainbow's every hue;
The bee could then find nectar in a common clover bloom,
And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the loom.
The picture that my memory paints is never seen to-day
The April sun of by-gone years has lost its brightest ray:
A fancy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old room,
But Margaret sang her sweetest to the music of the loom.
She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's taste was plain,
Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet refain.
The sunshine filled her days with joy, night's shadows brought no gloom,
When Margaret plied tbe shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom.
Her warp of life was daily toil, but love and song its woof;
The web she wove, a character beyond the world's reproof.
I've heard great prima donnas, who wore gold and lace costume,
But oh, the song and shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom.