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The Record

 Fearing that she might go one day
With some fine fellow of her choice,
I called her from her childish play,
And made a record of her voice.
And now that she is truly gone, I hear it sweet and crystal clear From out my wheezy gramophone: "I love you, Daddy dear.
" Indeed it's true she went away, But Oh she went all, all alone; Into the dark she went for aye, Poor little mite! ere girlhood grown.
Ah that I could with her have gone! But this is all I have to show - A ghost voice on a gramophone: "Dear Dad, I love you so.
" The saddest part of loss 'tis said, Is that time tempers our regret; But that is treason to the dead - I'll not forget, I'll not forget.
Sole souvenir of golden years, 'Twas best to break this disc in two, And spare myself a spate of tears .
.
.
But this I cannot do.
So I will play it every day, And it will seem that she is near, And once again I'll hear her say: I love you so, Oh Daddy dear.
" And then her kiss - a stab of woe.
The record ends .
.
.
I breathe a plea: "Oh God, speed me to where I know Wee lass, you wait for me.
"

Poem by Robert William Service
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