The Little Old Table Benjamin Britten

Creak, creak, little wood thing, little wood thing, creak, creak
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak, speak, the way you speak
Of the one who gave you to me!
You, you, little table, she brought—
Brought me with her own hand
As she looked at me with a thought:
That I did not understand
—Whoever owns it anon
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago