y some eastern river thy rosewood grew.
Thy inlaid pearl in the restless sea;
What craftsman moulded thy bosom fair.
Sounding with dreamy melody?
What maiden's fingers have swept thy strings.
In the distant vistas of long ago?
What love-lorn gallant has sung his lay
To thy tuneful cadence sweet and low?
What odors of romance round thee cling.
As each chord swells in thy bosom deep?
Whispering long-forgotten loves.
Trilling the soul to rest and sleep.
Oh, Muse, who dwells in the hollow shrine
Of my old guitar with its tales of yore.
Grant me the power to wake thy strains
In music sweeter than e'er before.
y some eastern river thy rosewood grew. 
