No, that's wrong--if honestly gained, no harm in a well filled purse,
But I often think of the little home standing there by the sea,
For far off merry England, the home planned for Aimee and me.
Oh to have toiled for her from dawn till the dews of restful night,
Her smile my guerdon, her love my prize, her heart so happy and bright.
Often I wonder if peace and love have sheltered her with their wings;
Of wealth I suppose they have plenty, and the comforts money brings,
For Montrose was the heir to a large amount of money I know,
And he certainly was not the kind of man to let his money go.
But there must be something warmer than gold to brighten Aimee's sky,
And I hav'nt much faith in a man who could win such a prize by a lie.
But Heaven is good that I found him not when my soul was passion rife,
'Twould only have brought her grief, for my aim was a life for a life,
Well-a-day! come here "Chronicle," let us see if you have a word
To calm the current of burning thoughts that down to their depths are
stirred,
I'll read the first thing I meet with, murders, fires, or kingdoms riven;
Oh you are the first on the page, "Vera, to her lover in Heaven."

"My lover why is it this night of storms,
My thoughts are ever turning to thee?
You who are sheltered from all the blast,
Hear the murmuring sounds of the crystal sea.

"My lover; do you remember the day,
When last my hands were in yours entwined,
And the air was faint with the summer flowers,
While a roll of thunder came on the wind.

"My lover; who always spoke words of love,