| |
| ’T IS 1 a dozen or so of years ago, | |
| Somewhere in the West countree, | |
| That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know | |
| By the name of Deborah Lee; | |
| Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, | 5 |
| But Deborah by me. | |
| |
| Now I was green, and she was green, | |
| As a summer’s squash might be; | |
| And we loved as warmly as other folks,— | |
| I and my Deborah Lee,— | 10 |
| With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom | |
| Coveted her and me. | |
| |
| But somehow it happened a long time ago, | |
| In the aguish West countree, | |
| That chill March morning gave the shakes | 15 |
| To my beautiful Deborah Lee; | |
| And the grim steam-doctor (drat him!) came, | |
| And bore her away from me,— | |
| The doctor and death, old partners they,— | |
| In the aguish West countree. | 20 |
| |
| The angels wanted her in heaven | |
| (But they never asked for me), | |
| And that is the reason, I rather guess, | |
| In the aguish West countree, | |
| That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and death, | 25 |
| Took off my Deborah Lee— | |
| My beautiful Deborah Lee— | |
| From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers, | |
| And bore her away from me. | |
| |
| Our love was as strong as a six-horse team, | 30 |
| Or the love of folks older than we, | |
| Or possibly wiser than we; | |
| But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, | |
| Was rather too many for me: | |
| He closed the peepers and silenced the breath | 35 |
| Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, | |
| And her form lies cold in the prairie mold, | |
| Silent and cold,—ah me! | |
| |
| The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, | |
| And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers | 40 |
| In their odorous beauty around it wave | |
| Through all the sunny hours,— | |
| The still, bright summer hours; | |
| And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass | |
| And the nectar-laden bee, | 45 |
| With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass,— | |
| She wakes no more to me; | |
| Ah, nevermore to me! | |
| Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, | |
| She wakes no more to me. | 50 |
| |
| Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, | |
| A vision of beauty I see | |
| Gliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light, | |
| Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,— | |
| My bride that was to be; | 55 |
| And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death, | |
| And the cold March wind, should stop the breath | |
| Of my darling Deborah Lee,— | |
| Adorable Deborah Lee,— | |
| That angels should want her up in heaven | 60 |
| Before they wanted me. | |
