My friends they fall from me,
My foes laugh to scorn;
I stand on life's desert,
A pilgrim forlorn.

Yet one flower is growing
Round hope's lonely grave;
One font still is flowing,
My parched lips to lave.

Say what is that floweret,
On life's barren waste?
And whence flows that fountain,
My lips still may taste?

'Tis the true heart of woman,
That blooms 'mid the storm,
Which no tempest can wither,
No changes transform.

The true heart of woman,
The true heart of woman,
Which no tempest can wither,
No changes transform.

In sunshine she flies us,
When all things look bright;
Her smile then denies us
The warmth of its light.

But when the clouds gather
Around us in gloom,
She's the rainbow of pleasure,
Our sky to illume.

Though friendship is fleeting,
Though hope may decay,
The fond love of woman
Will ne'er pass away.

'Tis the true heart of woman,
That blooms mid the storm,
Which no tempest can wither,
No changes transform.

The true heart of woman,
The true heart of woman,
Which no tempest can wither,
No changes transform.

"The True Heart of Woman"

Words by Mrs. Wilson,
Music by Alexander Lee
(New York: Atwill's Music Saloon, [1834-1847])


ARTIST: Caroline Moseley

from The True Heart of Woman:
Nineteenth-Century Parlor Songs and Parlor Singers

Lecture/performance by Caroline Moseley

(Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1993)


© Copyright 1993 by Caroline Moseley,
All rights reserved.

Digitized by Nathan Piazza
at the Digital Media Center,
Clemons Library, Univ. of Virginia