Every strange object has a story behind it. |
Let the tale be told of Eliza’s hair, Lying in the oaken box over there, Burned past the point of repair Yet there is no one left to care Strip away Time’s silkscreen, The old cabin would fall beneath, To reveal a field filled with summer’s sheen, Across flowing a singing stream Where once a backwoods boy met a maid green Twas the year 1817 She told him, I’ll give you a lock of my hair, If you promise never to leave And forever to care He kept it in a store-box gladly, But his mother said madly, I’ll throw it in the flame, If that should teach you shame When they met by the stream that day The waters were laughing with the swooning hay The sun was mid-risen over the field, Illuminating the tracks of the wagon wheels They followed to see what the west would yield They lost their tread Before the sunset sky turned red Somewhere beyond the northern way Right when a mountain snowstorm Suffocated the skies with a dreary gray Far away from home, In the cold all alone They died there, Beneath the stars, Bound to be buried Under stones unmarked Far away from the glittering fright That the firelight Of the burning box Struck into the darkness of the solemn night To those who asked His mother would say, He went off with some lass What her name was, I cannot remember Twenty summers have passed So ends the tale of Eliza’s hair, Still sitting in the scorched oaken box Lying in the fireplace of an abandoned lair |