Ofttimes when recollections throng
Serenely back from childhood years,
Awaking thoughts that slumbered long,
Compelling smiles or starting tears,
The music of a violin
Seems through my window floating in,—
I think I hear from far away
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.

Dan Harrison! I see him there
Beside the roaring winter hearth,
Fiddling away all mundane care,
His genial face aglow with mirth;
And when he laid his bow aside,
“Well done! well done!” he cheerly cried;
Well done, well done, indeed were they,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.

I do not know what tunes he played,
I can not name one melody;
His instrument was never made
In old Cremona, o'er the sea;
Yet from its chords his raptured skill
Drew magic strains my soul to thrill,
Some ah so mournful, some so gay,—
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.

I have been witness to the art
Of many a master of the bow,
But none has power to charm the heart
Like him I listened long ago;
Love stole on tiptoe through my trance
To welcome dream-eyed young Romance,
Responsive to the passioned sway
Of tunes Dan Harrison used to play.

Now with the music, as it floats,
Seraphic harping faintly blends;
I catch amid the mingling notes
Familiar voices of old friends;
While choral echoes sweetly fall
Of yearning love angelical,
And melt, like trembling tears, away,
In tunes Dan Harrison used to play.