There’s a laborer that listen to the voices of the dead In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led Through the land where the dead dreams go. There’s and old and hardened demi-rep, it’s ringing in her ears, In the City as the sun sinks low; With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears, Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears, Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years, And her laugh’s a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears For the land where the dead dreams go. There’s a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street, In the City as the sun sinks low; Though the music’s only Verdi there’s a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go. So it’s Jeremiah, Jeremiah, What have you to say When you meet the garland girls Tripping on their way? All around my gala hat I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is I’ve waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, The reason why I wear it is, My own love, my true love, is coming home to-day. It’s buy a bunch of violets for the lady (_It’s lilac time in London; it’s lilac time in London!_) Buy a bunch of violets for the lady; While the sky burns blue above: On the other side of the street you’ll find it shady (_It’s lilac time in London; it’s lilac time in London!_) But buy a bunch of violets for the lady; And tell her she’s your own true love. There’s a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street, In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; And the music’s not immortal, but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, As it dies into the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they’ve given it a glory and a part of play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And there, as the music changes, The song runs round again; Once more it turns and ranges Through all its joy and pain: Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets; And the wheeling world remembers all The wheeling song forgets.