Echo Of A Song

To my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming, Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose; With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows; To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along; ’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning To her laddie such a Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.

Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow; With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender, Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago. There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along; Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping When she sings to him that Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.

I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streaming Through the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree; On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, ’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me; And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleeping As the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along, All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearing Once again my mother’s Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.