Thomas Haynes Bayly

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.

Why don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?

Why don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?

Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade
Of the leaf where you slumbered all day;
Be content read more

Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade
Of the leaf where you slumbered all day;
Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth,
And make use of your wings while you may.
. . . .
But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite,
They at last found it dangerous play;
Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth,
Only dazzle to lead us astray.

I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

And the Baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.

And the Baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.