They're taking the old piano,
They're lifting it from the floor.
A carrier's cart is waiting
Outside the old home door.
And Mother is mutely watching
With tears on her faded cheek;
I wonder of what she's thinking,
Her heart is too full to speak.
Perhaps of the day he brought her,
When out from a wreathed arch
There rang from the old piano
Bright bars of a bridal march.
Or maybe when long years after
It wailed the dead march in Saul,
As slowly he went for ever
Enwrapped in funeral pall.
I know by her pain drawn features
How tightly it's chords entwine,
I know the piano corner
To her is a wasted shrine.