If any one should ask you,

The reason why I wear it is—

My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.

And 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 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 carolling 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 to 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: