Chapter I: Part 1

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3 BEADLES 3
DIME

Song Book
No. 3.

A COLLECTION OF NEW AND POPULAR

COMIC AND SENTIMENTAL

SONGS.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
General Dime Book Publishers.

Books for the Hour!

MILITARY EXPLOITS
OF
Great Soldiers and Generals.

BEADLE’S
DIME BIOGRAPHICAL LIBRARY.

Each Issue Complete. 100 Pages. Price Ten Cents.

No. 6.--THE LIFE, MILITARY AND CIVIC SERVICES OF LIEUT.-GEN. WINFIELD SCOTT. Complete up to the present period.

No. 4.--THE LIFE, TIMES AND SERVICES OF ANTHONY WAYNE (MAD ANTHONY): Brigadier-General in the War of the Revolution, and Commander-in-Chief of the Army during the Indian War.

No. 1.--THE LIFE OF JOSEPH GARIBALDI: The Liberator of Italy. Complete up to the withdrawal of Garibaldi to his Island Home, after the Neapolitan Campaign, 1860.

These brilliant books of the most brilliant Commanders and soldiers of modern times possess remarkable interest at this moment. Each book will be found to be a _full_ record of the men and events in which they acted so splendid a part.

EVERY YOUNG MAN SHOULD READ THEM!
EVERY SOLDIER SHOULD READ THEM!
EVERY LOVER OF THE UNION SHOULD READ THEM!

For Sale at all News Depots.

BEADLE’S

DIME

Song Book

No. 3.

A COLLECTION OF NEW AND POPULAR

COMIC AND SENTIMENTAL

SONGS.

NEW YORK:
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO.,
NO. 137 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860
BY IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO.,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern district of New York.

CONTENTS OF DIME SONG BOOK NO. 3.

Page

Annie, Dear, Good-by, 9
A Sailor’s Life for Me, 54
Bessy was a Sailor’s Bride, 62
Bonny Jean, 6
Comic Katee Darling, 23
Comic Parody, 25
Darling Jenny Bell, 46
Darling Rosabel, 10
Death of Annie Laurie, 7
Ettie May, 31
Few Days, 41
Give ’em String and let ’em Went, 38
Go it while You’re Young, 38
Hail Columbia, 55
Happy Hezekiah, 69
I’d Choose to be a Daisy, 5
I have Something Sweet to Tell You, 14
Isle of Beauty, 59
I Think of Old Ireland wherever I Go, 13
Jeannette and Jeannot, 58
John Jones, 21
Jordan is a Hard Road to Travel, 43
Kitty Kimo, 64
Lather and Shave, 40
Lager Bier Song, 36
Linda has Departed, 11
Lillie Bell, 28
Love Not, 63
Man the Life-Boat, 53
My Dear Old Mother, 57
My Girl with a Calico Dress, 45
My Heart’s in Old Ireland, 12
My Poor Dog Tray, 68
Old Rosin the Bow, 61
Over the Left, 65
Old Dog Tray, No. 2. 16
Parody on the West, 27
Pop Goes the Weasel, 39
Pretty Jane, 44
Rosa Lee, 17
Song of the Locomotive, 35
Sparking Sarah Jane, 22
The American Girl, 66
The American Boy, 67
The Boys of Kilkenny, 49
The Emigrant’s Farewell, 50
The Fine Old English Gentleman, 18
The Fine Old Irish Gentleman, 19
The Fine Old Dutch Gentleman, 20
The Fireman’s Death, 32
The Fireman’s Boy, 33
The Girl I Left behind Me, 70
The Gold-Digger’s Lament, 48
The Indian Hunter, 30
The Old Oaken Bucket, 52
The Old Whiskey Jug, 37
The Other Side of Jordan, 42
The Pirate’s Serenade, 51
The Yellow Rose of Texas, 8
Ten O’Clock; or, Remember, Love,
Remember, 47
Tilda Horn, 71
True Blue, 56
To the West, 24
Uncle Ned, 65
Unhappy Jeremiah, 66
Vilikins and his Dinah, 24
We Miss Thee at Home, 29
What will Mrs. Grundy Say? 15
Woodman, Spare that Tree, 60

BEADLE’S 5
DIME SONG BOOK
No. 3.

I’d Choose to be a Daisy.

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, owners
of the copyright.

I’d choose to be a daisy,
If I might be a flower,
My petals closing softly
At twilight’s quiet hour,
And waking in the morning
When falls the early dew,
To welcome heaven’s bright sunshine,
And heaven’s bright tear-drops too.

_Chorus._--I’d choose to be a daisy,
If I might be a flower,
My petals closing softly
At twilight’s quiet hour.

I love the gentle Lily,
It looks so meek and fair,
But daisies I love better,
For they grow everywhere,
The lilies bloom so sadly,
In sunshine or in shower,
But daisies still look upward,
However dark the hour.

_Chorus._--I’d choose to be a daisy, &c.

Bonny Jean. 6

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.
owners of the copyright.

Oh, the summer moon is brightly blowing,
The wild birds wake their song,
And the streamlet as it softly murmurs,
So gently glides along.
Where the sweet hedge-rose is blowing,
In the woodlands green,
There I love to wander,
With my heart’s true queen--
My bonny, bonny Jean.

CHORUS.

Where the sweet hedge-rose is blowing,
In the woodlands green,
There I love to wander,
With my heart’s true queen.

Yet ’tis not the rosy tint of summer,
Nor the song-birds’ joyous lay,
Nor the streamlet’s murmuring music,
That makes my heart feel gay;
’Tis her smile that beams upon me,
’Mid each flowery scene,
While I fondly wander,
With my heart’s true queen,
My bonny, bonny Jean.

Bonny Jean, your smile is always with me,
When absent, love, from thee;
Making joy and sunshine round my pathway,
Wherever I may be.
May they ever beam upon me,
In this mortal scene,
While I fondly wander
With my heart’s true queen,
My bonny, bonny Jean.

The Death of Annie Laurie. 7

I sung, when in the Crimea,
My bonnie Annie’s praise,
My heart then turn’d in exile,
To sweet Maxwelton’s braes.
To sweet Maxwelton’s braes,
But sweet nae mair for me,
For I hae seen wi’ anguish,
Their fairest blossom dee.

When war’s alarms were over,
I sought my loved ane’s bower,
But death’s cauld breath was blighting,
Blighting my bonnie flower.
Blighting my bonnie flower,
And I nae help could gie,
Oh, why, when in the battle,
Did I na’ fa’ an’ dee.

I saw her cheek grow thinner,
Yet flush wi’ hectic’s hue,
I mark’d her e’e’s strange brightness,
Those e’es o’ darkest blue.
Those e’es o’ darkest blue,
That beam’d sae saft on me,
When I cried my Annie Laurie,
I can na’ see thee dee.

Then calm as to nightly slumber,
She sank in my arms to rest,
An’ the wild flowers o’ spring now cumber
The sod upon her breast.
The sod upon her breast,
Oh, what wad I na’ gie,
If beside my Annie Laurie
I could lay down an’ dee.

The Yellow Rose of Texas. 8

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway,
owners of the copyright.

There’s a yellow rose in Texas that I am going to see,
No other darkey knows her, no darkey only me;
She cried so when I left her, it like to broke my heart,
And if I ever find her, we never more will part.

CHORUS.

She’s the sweetest rose of color this darkey ever knew,
Her eyes are bright as diamonds, they sparkle like the dew,
You may talk about your Dearest May, and sing of Rosa Lee,
But the yellow rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee.

Where the Rio Grande is flowing, and the starry skies are bright,
She walks along the river in the quiet summer night;
She thinks if I remember, when we parted long ago,
I promised to come back again, and not to leave her so.

_Chorus._--She’s the sweetest rose of color, &c.

Oh! now I’m going to find her, for my heart is full of woe,
And we’ll sing the song together, that we sung so long ago,
We’ll play the banjo gayly, and we’ll sing the songs of yore,
And the yellow rose of Texas shall be mine forever more.

_Chorus._--She’s the sweetest rose of color, &c.

Annie Dear, Good Bye! 9

Copied by permission of WM. HALL & SON, 543 Broadway, N. Y.,
owners of the copyright.

I’m leaning o’er the gate, Annie,
’Neath the cottage wall;
The grey dawn breaks, the hour grows late,
I hear the trumpet’s call.
I could not brook thy cheek so pale,
The sad tear in thine eye,--
This heart which laughs at war might quail,
So Annie dear, good-by!
This heart which laughs at war might quail,
So Annie dear, good-by!

I’m marching with the brave, Annie!
Far from home and thee,
To win renown, perhaps a grave,
A glorious one ’twill be!
But what so e’er the fate I meet,
To conquer, or to die!
This heart’s last throb for _thee_ will beat;
So Annie dear, good-by!
This heart’s last throb for _thee_ will beat;
So Annie _dear_, good-by!

Darling Rosabel. 10

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.,
owners of the copyright.

Softly sigh the winds of evening,
Through the lone sequester’d dell,
Where in calm and dreamless slumber,
Lies our darling Rosabel.
Like a flower she bloom’d in beauty,
Shedding sweetness all around;
Like a flower she droop’d and faded,
When we laid her in the ground.

CHORUS.

Softly sighs the winds of evening,
Through the lone sequester’d dell,
Where in calm and dreamless slumber,
Lies our darling Rosabel.

Other flowers still bloom around us,
In our little native glen,
But so pure and fair a blossom
Never shall we see again.
Fare thee well, thou loved and lost one,
Thou art only gone before,
Where’er long we hope to meet thee,
Never to lose thee any more.

_Chorus._--Softly sighs, &c.

Linda has Departed. 11

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.,
owners of the copyright.

Death with his cold hand, hath robb’d me of every hope,
Hath robb’d me of every hope--my loved one is gone;
Bleak was the moment, that parted our beating hearts--
That parted our beating hearts, and left me alone.
Sweet was the low voice, that wrapt me in fond delight,
That wrapt me in fond delight, as fair visions do;
Soft were the dark eyes, that languish’d in beauty bright,
That languish’d in beauty bright--how fondly and true!

CHORUS.

Linda has departed, the warm and tender-hearted,
Linda has departed, and left me here to mourn.

Blest were the hours pass’d, with her whom my soul adored,
With her whom my soul adored, whose heart was so light;
Sad is the lone hour, bereft of my darling one,
Bereft of my darling one, in darkness and night.
All now is cheerless, my joys long have pass’d away,
My joys long have pass’d away, with love’s fleeting years;
Hope has no comfort, for sadness now holdeth sway,
For sadness now holdeth sway, and leaves me in tears.

CHORUS.

Linda has departed, the warm and tender-hearted,
Linda has departed and left me here to mourn.

My Heart’s in Old Ireland. 12

My bark on the billow dash’d gloriously on,
And glad were the notes of the sailor-boy’s song;
Yet sad was my bosom and bursting with woe,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go.

More dear than the flowers that Italy yields,
Are the red-breasted daisies that spangle thy fields,
The shamrock, the hawthorn, the white blossom sloe,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.

The shores they look lovely, yet cheerless and vain,
Bloom the lilies of France, and the olives of Spain;
When I think of the fields where the wild daisies grow,
Then my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.

The lilies and roses abandon the plains,
Though the summer’s gone by, still the shamrock remains,
Like a friend in misfortune it blossoms o’er the snow,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.

I sigh and I vow, if e’er I get home,
No more from my dear native cottage I’ll roam;
The harp shall resound, and the goblet shall flow,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.

I Think of Old Ireland wherever I Go. 13

I’m a wanderer, now, from the land of my birth,
Far away from the scenes I hold dearest on earth,
And I’ve seen both the beauties of the Nile and Arno,
Still I think of old Ireland, wherever I go.

CHORUS.

I think of old Ireland, across the blue wave,
I think of old Ireland, the land of the brave,
’Tis the home of the brave, where the wild shamrocks grow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland, wherever I go.

And ’tis soon I’ll be home, in the land I love best,
In my own dearest Emerald Isle of the West,
Though now I am chasing the wild buffalo,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

Yet though far away from that dear blessed sod,
I still offer up prayers to my country’s God,
To chase from her borders the base Saxon foe,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

Dear land of the shamrock, and sweet smelling brier,
Dear scenes of my childhood which never could tire,
When a boy I picked beech-nuts in wild Glenaboe,
Oh, I think of old Ireland, wherever I go.

And how oft have I drank out of Barranane’s Well,
In whose clear waters there lurks a bright spell,
The afflicted go there to find ease for their woe,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

And how oft have I swam in the Blackwater’s tide,
And roam’d the sweet wild woods around Castle Hyde,
For it’s through its wild woodland the Blackwaters flow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

And how oft have I sported through its pastures so green,
Where the wild fragrant daisy can always be seen,
For flowers in luxuriance there always do grow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

But all my sad wanderings soon will be o’er,
And that isle of my heart I will never leave more,
Though deep is her sorrow, and bitter her woe,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.

I Have Something Sweet to Tell You. 14

I have something sweet to tell you, but the secret you must keep,
And remember, if it isn’t right, “I’m talking in my sleep;”
For I know I am but dreaming,
When I think your love is mine;
And I know they are but seeming,
All the hopes that round me shine.
I have something sweet to tell you, but the secret you must keep,
And remember, if it isn’t right, “I’m talking in my sleep.”

So remember when I tell you what I can not longer keep
We are none of us responsible for what we say in sleep.
My pretty secret’s coming!
Oh! listen with your heart,
And you shall hear it humming;
Be close! ’twill make you start.
I have something sweet to tell you, but the secret you must keep,
And remember if it isn’t right, “I’m talking in my sleep.”

Oh! shut your eyes so earnest, or mine will wildly weep,
I love you! I adore you! but, “I’m talking in my sleep.”
For I know I am but dreaming,
When I think your love is mine;
And I know they are but seeming,
All the hopes that round me shine.
I have something sweet to tell you, but the secret you must keep,
And remember, if it isn’t right, “I’m talking in my sleep.”

What Will Mrs. Grundy Say? 15

Oh, fashion now is all the rage in houses, hoops, and dress;
And each must do what others do--they dare not think of less.
Mrs. Grundy is the queen of all mankind to-day;
And each one thinks before she acts of--What will Grundy say?

Mr. Tompkins fail’d last fall, and is not worth a red,
But still he lives upon the “Fifth,” and still holds up his head.
They keep their carriage all the same, though not a dime they pay;
They can’t retrench a cent, for shame of--What would Grundy say?

There’s Mary Jane, she’s tall and slim, a sack of bonesshe’s grown,
And brown as any Gipsy girl, and awkward as a clown;
Yet she must wear her dresses low, and her thin neck display,
For ’tis the fashion; and you know, What would Dame Grundy say?

There’s Mrs. Jones, she’s fifty-four, and still she curls her hair,
Although all know it is a wig the vain old dame doth wear,
She gives of balls, each season two, and wastes her wealth away?
For she must do as others do, else, what would Grundy say?

There’s fat and stumpy Martha Ann, that weighs two hundred pounds,
She’s a bait to catch a man, but not a bite has found.
And though she is so short and stout, she promenades Broadway;
Her skirts are thirty feet about, Oh, what will Grundy say?

There’s shanghai coats and bad cigars, and Musard’s new cravats;
There’s paper collars and wristbands, and bell-crown’d,
small-brimm’d hats;
For comfort, ease, and common-sense, must yield to fashion’s sway;
For now the sole prevailing thought is, what will Grundy say?

Old Dog Tray. 16
No. 2.

The morning meal is past--the next is coming fast--
’Twill bring me a bill that I know I can not pay,
For meats, both fat and lean, that I was jolly green
To trust beside that old dog Tray.

CHORUS.

Old dog Tray! always hungry--
Meat can not drive him away;
With his tail “druv” in behind, neither gentle nor yet kind
Is that hungry dog, that old dog Tray.

I hurried home one night, with a rousing appetite,
For nothing had I tasted the whole of that long day.
But Oh! how I was done--not a thing was left but bone--
All eaten by that old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray, &c.

The steaks I thought my own, had vanish’d one by one--
Those cutlets, those chops too, had all pass’d away;
Those tenderloins were gone--they each and all had flown--
Stolen by that old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray, &c.

With naught to break my fast, my eyes on Tray I cast,
Who look’d as though he felt what my breaking heart would say;
But oh! ’twas all deceit--’twas _he_ who stole my meat,
That hungry dog, that old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray, &c.

Rosa Lee. 17

When I lib’d in Tennessee, U li a li o la e,
I went courtin’ Rosa Lee, U li a li o la e.
Eyes as dark as winter night
Lips as red as berry bright,
When first I did her wooing go,
She said, now don’t be foolish, Joe! U li a li o la e.
Courting down in Tennessee, U li a li o la e,
’Neath the wild Banana tree.

I said you lubly gal, dat’s plain, U li a li o la e,
Breff as sweet as sugar cane, U li a li o la e,
Feet as large and comely too,
Might make a cradle of each shoe,
Rosa take me for your beau,
She said, now don’t be foolish, Joe! U li a li o la e.
Courtin down in Tennessee, &c.

My story yet is to be told, U li a li o la e,
Rosa catch’d a shocking cold, U li a li o la e.
Send de doctor, fetch de nurse,
Doctor came but make her worse,
I tried to make her laugh, but no,
She said, Now don’t be foolish, Joe, U li a li o la e.
Courtin down in Tennessee, &c.

Dey gib her up, no power could save, U li a li o la e,
She ax me follow to her grave, U li a li o la e.
I take her hand, ’twas cold as death,
So cold I hardly draw my breff,
She saw my tear in sorrow flow,
And said, Farewell, my dearest, Joe, U li a li o la e.
Rosa sleeps in Tennessee, &c.

The Fine Old English Gentleman. 18

I’ll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion at a bountiful old rate,
With a good old porter to relieve the old poor at the gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.

His hall, so old, was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers, which had stood against old
foes,
And ’twas here “his worship” sat in state, in doublet and trunk
hose,
And quaff’d his cup of good old sack to warm his good old nose.
Like a fine old, &c.

When winter old, brought frost and cold, he open’d house to all,
And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball,
Nor was the houseless wanderer e’er driven from his hall,
For while he feasted all the great he ne’er forgot the small.
Like a fine old, &c.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll’d
swiftly by,
And autumn’s falling leaf proclaim’d, the old man--he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life’s latest sigh,
And mournful friends stood round his couch, and tears bedim’d each
eye.
For the fine old, &c.

The Fine Old Irish Gentleman.

I’ll sing you a dacent song that was made by a Paddy’s pate,
Of a raal ould Irish gintleman, who had a fine estate,
Whose mansion it was made of mud, with thatch and all complate,
With a hole at top, through which the smoke so graceful did ratrate.
Hurrah for the ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

His walls so could, were cover’d wid the devil a thing for show,
Except an ould shillelah, which had knock’d down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sat at ease, and without shoes or hose,
And quaff’d his noggin of poteen to warm his big red nose.
Like a fine ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

To Donnybrook his custom was to go to every fair,
And though he’d seen a few score years, he still was young when
there;
And while the rich they feasted him, he still, among the poor,
Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens
roar.
Like a raal ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
19
But och, mavrone! once at a row ould Barney got a knock,
And one that kilt him, ’cause he couldn’t get o’er the shock,
They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,
Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did you die? och, hone!
Then they waked this Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Though all things in their coarse must change, and seasons pass
away,
Yet Irish hearts of oulden time were just as at this day.
Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man,
To serve a friend and bate a foe, it always was the plan
Of a raal old Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

The Fine Old Dutch Gentleman.

I’ll sing you now a Dietchen song ’bout Hans Yon Krouplegheet,
Vot keept a lager bier saloon up in de Bowery shtreet,
He eat de shwinepeefe, shpeek, un slough, un efery kind of meat,
Un I shvear mit mine goot grashus, pon top de people, so much as
a barrel of sourcrout, un two puchels of lager bier, efery
morning he would eat!
He vas a fine old Dietchen shentlemen von of the pestest kind.

By de fireshtove in his bier saloon efery morning he uoold shtand,
Mit a bottle of schnapps down by his side, un a glass up in his
hand,
Un by himself he trinks dis toast, “Ich lieben die Vaderland,”
Un midout you could Dietsche vershter, for he vold nix Inglish
gasprochen ven he’d say, “Spechlebecks von-grossen-dunder un
blitzen nut-de-swimegrahdle skipoupens-die-dobbleshm,” you
couldn’t nix undershtand.
Dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind.

His nose vas red ash a beetle, yaw, by dunder, dat ish drue,
His mouth pout fourdeen inches wide, his eyes vere black ash plue.
He pelongs mit de Freesangerbund, un he vas a Turner too,
Un politics makes him nix difference, but ven you comes mit de
Maine liquors law to dake avay his lager bier, den, py dam,
dat vas someding new,
To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de pestest kind.
20
Dis fine old Dietchen shentlemen he vent to bed drunk efery night,
Un somedimes ven dere vas coming rount elections, mit de udder
fellers he’d fight,
Un slouck dem on de koup mit a double-barrel’d powie knife, but I
don’t tink dat vas rite,
For ven vun of dem peeples haf his head preak’d into his nose all
ofer his face, un vas nearly drownded mit a big stick, I tell
you somedings rite avay shust now dat vas a sorry sight,
To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind.

But von time dere comed some drouples, un he fight mit all his
main,
Dough he vas kilt von two ash six eight couple of times, he shumps
up un fites again,
Dill his hed vas all splitted open down pack, un den de blood comes
down like rain;
Un py and py come dere de coroner mit de shury, un sit on him apout
dwenty-two hours ash tree-quarters, un shqueeze all de preth
out of his pody, den dey prings in a verdigrass, vot he dies
from prandy and vater on de prain,
Does dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, de subject of dis song.

Over the Left.

I am thine in thy gladness,
I am thine in thy tears,
My love, it can change not
In absence or years.

Were a dungeon thy dwelling,
My home it should be,
Its gloom would be sunshine,
Were I but with thee.

For life has no beauty
Of thee, love, bereft.
I am thine, and thine only,
THINE OVER THE LEFT.

John Jones, 21
A PARODY ON BEN BOLT.

Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,
Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,
Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,
And went into fits at your frown.
In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,
Where the goslins are learning to swim,
Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,
And, by a mistake, fell in.

Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,
That winds at the foot of the hill,
Together we’ve seen the old mare go,
Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.
The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,
The rafters fell on to a cow,
And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,
Are lords of the cider mill now.

Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,
Which stood on the path to the barn,
And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,
Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.
The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,
The lightning the tree overcome,
And down where the onions and carrots once grew,
Grows thistles as big as your thumb.

There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,
They have changed from the good to the bad,
And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,
I’d like to go home to my dad.
Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,
Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,
And yet I believe I am your only true friend,
John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.

Sparking Sarah Jane. 22

Sitting on the sofa, leaning on my breast,
Is a lovely maiden, perfectly at rest;
Listening to my love vows, sighing very plain;
Bless me this is pleasant, sparking Sarah Jane.

_Chorus._--Bless me ain’t it pleasant,
Bless me ain’t it pleasant,
Bless me ain’t it pleasant,
Sparking Sarah Jane?

Gentle words are spoken, kisses sweet we give,
Vows to love each other long as we do live;
Vows to be as happy as the running rill,
Never getting angry: do you think I will?

Dad is getting squeamish, shakes his head in doubt,
Ma looks on and wonders what her gal’s about,
Thinks there’ll be a weddin’--guesses that’s no sin,
But somehow or another _hopes_ I’ve got the _tin_.

Daddy he’s consented, mamma can’t say no,
Sonny kinder likes it, sissy wants a show,
Now begins the bustle, now begins the fun,
Every one is ready, shopping must be done.

Carriage stands awaiting, Where’ll you please to go?
Drive us up to Stewart’s, see what he can show
Troubling all the merchants, buying here and there,
Beating down the prices--Are you sure ’twill wear?

Hurry up the dresses, cut them very low,
Make them large and airy where the hoops do go,
Trying on the bodice, trying on the capes,
Keep your fingers moving, cause its getting late.

Sewing in the chamber, stitching in the hall,
Servants in the kitchen, fixing for the ball;
Every one is busy ’cepting Jane and I,
Do you know the reason--shall I tell you why?

Sitting on the sofa, leaning on my breast,
Is a lovely maiden, perfectly at rest;
Listening to my love vows, sighing very plain,
Bless me this is pleasant, sparking Sarah Jane.

Comic Katee Darling. 23

Oh, they tell me you are fast asleep, my darling,
That thy jolly red nose I can not now behold,
Don’t believe that I am tight, Katee Darling,
Because I am singing here to you all in the cold.
Oh, you know not the loving,
Of the hearts of Erin’s sons,
When a good hot whiskey toddy, Katee Darling,
Is the goal to the race that he runs.
Oh, wake up, sweet Katee,
For the gas lights are burning, Katee Darling,
The little birds are singing on each tree,
Will you never leave off snoring, Katee Darling,
Or know that I am crying here for thee?

I am standing by thy window, Katee Darling,
This night is a cold night for me.
Oh, don’t you hear me yelling, Katee Darling,
Behold I am singing here for thee.
Methinks I see a policeman,
By yonder shining light,
And he’ll put me in the lock-up Katee, Darling,
If he catches me here serenading to-night.
Then listen, dear Katee,
For the wild flowers are sleeping, Katee Darling,
And the police are looking round for me,
Will you never more hoist your window, Katee Darling,
For see, I’m waiting for thee?

’Tis useless all my weeping, Katee Darling,
But I wish to goodness now you were my bride,
And I’d give two shillings directly, Katee Darling,
If I were only by your side.
Oh, a great big coat I’m wearing,
And I scarce can heave a sigh,
But I’ll never leave off drinking, Katee Darling,
Every day that I can get it till I die.
Then hear me, sweet Katee,
The policeman now has got me, Katee Darling,
And no one knows when I’ll again be free;
In the lonely Tombs come and greet me, Katee Darling,
For there I’ll be waiting for thee.

Vilikins and His Dinah! 24

’Tis of a rich merchant who in London did dwell,
He had but one daughter, an unkimmon nice young gal;
Her name--it was Dinah, scarce sixteen years old,
With a very large fortune in silver and gold.
Singing, to la lol la rol lall to ral lal la.

As Dinah was a valiking the garden one day,
Her papa he came to her, and thus he did say,
“Go dress yourself, Dinah, in georgeous array,
And take yourself a husiband, both galliant and gay.”
Singing, &c.

“Oh papa, oh papa, I’ve not made up my mind,
And to marry just yet, why I don’t feel inclined;
To you my large fortune I’ll gladly give o’er,
If you’ll let me live single a year or two more.”
Singing, &c.

“Go, go, boldest daughter,” the parient replied,
“If you won’t consent to be this here young man’s bride,
I’ll give your large fortune to the nearest of kin,
And you shan’t reap the benefit of one single pin.”
Singing, &c.

As Vilikins was valiking the garden around,
He spied his dear Dinah lying dead upon the ground,
And the cup of cold pison, it lay by her side,
With a billet-doux a stating, ’twas by pison she died.
Singing, &c.

He kiss’d her cold corpus a thousand times o’er,
And call’d her his Dinah though she was no more,
Then swallow’d the pison like a lovyer so brave,
And Vilikins and his Dinah lie both in one grave.
Singing, &c.

MORAL.

Now all you young maidens take warning by her,
Never not by no means disobey your guverner;
And all you young fellows, mind who you clasp eyes on,
Think of Vilikins and his Dinah and the cup of cold pison.
Singing &c.

Comic Parody. 25

’Tis of a rich Dutchman in Niew York did live;
He had von fine daughter you petter pelieve;
Her name vas Katarina, so fair ash a rose,
Un she had a large fortune in the hands of old Mose.

Ash Katarina vas drawing de lager bier von day,
Her fader comed to her, un dus he do say:
“Hurry up, Katarina! de parlor go to,
A customer vaits to go riding mit you.”

“Oh, fader, vy don’t dey some oder ghel find,
To ride mit dem fellers? I don’t feel inclined;
De vay day drives de buggy, it makes me feel veak,
Un I vants to get married mit Hans Dunder next veek.”

Den her fader got mad un he shvear his “gott dam!”
She never must marry mit any young man.
“If you love dis Hans Dunder, you may go take his bags,
Mit his hooks, un his paskets, un go gadder rags.”

Katarina now back to de kitchen she ran,
Saying, “I’ll eat up mine preakfast so fast vot I can;
Den I’ll dravel avay, ash I can’t been his vife;”
But dat vas de vay dat she losed her life!

For as she vas eating a big, Bolony sassage,
It shtick’t in her troat, un it shtop’d up de passage;
She tried for to breath, but by greef ofercome,
Her head it reel’d round, un she fall’d very dumb.

Now Hans Dunder he happen’d to valk in the door,
He seed his Katarina lying dead on the floor;
A big Bolony sassage vas lying by her side,
Says Hans “I pe tam, ’tvas mit this ting she died.”

MORE-ALE!

Now all you young vummins, votefer you do,
Don’t let dat Hans Dunder shpeak somedings mit you,
Un all you young fellers, ven you courts in de passage,
Dink of Hans un Katarina un de big Bolony sassage.

To the West! 26

To the West! to the West! to the land of the free,
Where the mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea;
Where a man is a man, if he is willing to toil,
And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil;
Where children are blessings, and he who hath most,
Has aid to his fortune, and riches to boast;
Where the young may exult, and the aged may rest,
Away, far away, to the land of the West.

CHORUS.

To the West! to the West! to the land of the free,
Where the mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea;
Where the young may exult, and the aged may rest,
Away, far away, to the land of the West.

To the West! to the West! where the rivers that flow,
Run thousands of miles, sparkling out as they go;
Where the green waving forests shall echo our call,
As wide as old England, and free to us all;
Where the prairies, like seas where the billows have roll’d,
Are broad as the kingdoms and empires of old;
And the lakes are oceans in storms or in rest--
Away, far away, to the land of the West.
To the West! to the West, &c.

To the West! to the West! there is wealth to be won;
A forest to clear is the work to be done;
We’ll try it--we’ll do it--and never despair,
While there’s light in the sunshine, or life in the air;
The bold independence that labor shall buy,
Shall strengthen our hearts, and forbid us to sigh;
Away, far away, let us hope for the best,
For a home is a home, in the land of the West.
To the West! to the West, &c.

Parody on To the West! 27

To the West! to the West, I once went, do you see,
And one visit, I’m sure, was sufficient for me;
Oh, the things that I saw there, they frighten’d me quite,
And ever since then, sirs, I’ve scarcely been right.
My children got sick every day, sirs, almost,
And my wife took the chills, and got deaf as a post;
Oh, there’s some may exult, but for me, sirs, I’m bless’d
If I haven’t as much as I want of the West
To the West! to the West, &c.

To the West! to the West! where the rivers that flow,
Are full of great big alligators, you know;
Where the snakes in the forest make you feel precious queer,
And you don’t see a bar-room not twice in a year.
And if ’cross the prairie you happen to go,
You’re sure to be toss’d by some wild buffalo;
Where the lakes are like children--they’re never at rest,
’Pon my word, sirs, I soon had enough of the West.
To the West! to the West, &c.

At the West they told me there was wealth to be won,
The forest to clear, was the work to be done;
I tried it--couldn’t do it--guv it up in despair,
And just see if you’ll ever again catch me there.
The little snug farm I expected to buy,
I quickly discover’d was just all in my eye;
I came back like a streak--you may go--but I’m bless’d
If you’ll ever again, sirs, catch me at the West.
To the West! to the West, &c.

Lillie Bell. 28

Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, owners
of the copyright.

On the grave near massa’s dwelling,
You remember, darkies, well,
Stands a stone, so silent, telling
Where sleeps gentle Lillie Bell;
Where, in spring, the tall bananas
To the winds their branches wave,
Guarding well from every danger
Gentle Lillie’s lonely grave.

CHORUS.

Oh, Lillie! long-lost Lillie!
To thy grave amid the dell
Our hearts are sadly turning,
Gentle Lillie, Lillie Bell.

Oh! darkies, how my heart is yearning,
Once to see that grave again;
Memory backward quickly turning,
Frees my breast from present pain.
But those days have gone forever--
Lost beneath life’s angry wave;
I weep no more; my heart is buried
With my Lillie in her grave.

_Chorus._--Oh, Lillie! &c.

’Twas last eve I saw her beckon,
Far up in the azure sky,
Bidding me to quickly hasten
To her new-found home on high.
Then, darkies, take me quickly, take me
Where the tall bananas wave;
For my heart will cease its sighing
Near my Lillie’s lonely grave.

_Chorus._--Oh, Lillie! &c.

We Miss Thee at Home. 29

We miss thee at home, yes, we miss thee
Since the hour we bade thee adieu;
And prayers have encircled thy pathway,
From anxious hearts loving and true,
That the Saviour would guide and protect thee,
As far from the loved ones you roam,
And whisper, whene’er thou wert sadden’d,
“They miss thee, all miss thee at home.”

When morning awakes us from slumber,
We catch from the lips the first kiss,
And fold in a wandering zephyr,
To be wafted to him whom we miss;
And when we have join’d the “home circle,”
And replaced the still vacant chair,
In each eye rose the gathering tear-drop,
For him we were wont to see there.

The shadows of evening are falling--
Oh, where is the wanderer now?
The breeze that floats lightly around me,
Perchance may soon visit his brow;
Oh, bear on thy bosom a message,
We are watching, oh, why wilt thou roam?
The heart has grown sad and dejected,
For we miss thee, all miss thee at home.

The Indian Hunter. 30

Let me go to my home in the far distant West,
To the scenes of my youth, that I like the best;
Where the tall cedars are, and the bright waters flow,
Where my parents will greet me--white man, let me go.

Let me go to the spot where the cataract plays,
Where oft I have sported in my boyish days;
There is my poor mother, whose heart will o’erflow
At the sight of her child--oh, there let me go.

Let me go to the hills and the valleys so fair,
Where oft I have breathed my own mountain air;
And there through the forest, with quiver and bow,
I have chased the wild deer--oh, there let me go.

Let me go to my father, by whose valiant side,
I have sported so oft in the height of my pride,
And exulted to conquer the insolent foe--
To my father, that chieftain--oh, there let me go.

And, oh, let me go to my dark-eyed maid,
Who taught me to love beneath the willow shade;
Whose heart’s like the fawn’s, and as pure as the snow,
And she loves her dear Indian--to her let me go.

And, oh, let me go to my fair forest home,
And never again will I wish to roam,
And there let my body in ashes lie low;
To that scene in the forest, white man, let me go.

Ettie May. 31

Copied by permission of WM. HALL & SON, 543 Broadway, N. Y.,
Publishers of the music, and owners of copyright.

In beauty gleamed the moon last night,
And brightly star lamps shone,
The wind among the lindentrees
Made music sad and lone;
The shadows of the firelight danced
Like sprites upon the floor,
As moon and star ray gently fell
Around the cottage door;
With breathings hush’d we sat around
The couch where Ettie lay,
And wept that one so beautiful,
So soon must pass away.

She wore within her golden hair
A mesh of changeful light,
And mingled with her dark eyes’ sheen
Were spirits’ gleams last night;
Upon their light and viewless wings,
The angels downward came,
And stole within the cottage door,
And quench’d our love-light flame.
So quiet were her slumbers sweet
On yester eventide,
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping, when she died!

The Fireman’s Death. 32

He slept, and o’er his dauntless brow
A shade of sorrow stole,
As though some scene of deep distress,
Was busy with his soul.
When suddenly the dread alarm,
Came ringing shrill and clear,
Cleaving the night air, till it struck
Upon his startled ear.

CHORUS.

He bounded up: his practised eye,
Was turn’d upon the lurid sky,
Lit by the flames, which mounting higher,
Soon clothed the night in a robe of fire.

With lightning speed he reach’d the scene--
Oh! what a sight was there!
A mother stood amid the flames,
And shriek’d in wild despair!
Her arms around her frighten’d babe
Where thrown with frenzied clasp,
As though she fear’d the fire-fiend
Would tear it from her grasp.

With helmet turn’d, through fire and smoke,
The gallant fellow fearless broke;
He saved them both, but ah! his life
Was lost in the unequal strife.
Now in sweet Greenwood’s peaceful shade
The noble hero sleeps,
And o’er his grave full many a friend,
In silent sorrow sweeps.

A monument erected there
Is pointed to with pride
By those with whom he often fought
The fire, side by side.
Sweet flow’rs exhale their fragrant breath,
Where now he, peaceful sleeps in death
And trees their spreading branches wave
Above his solemn Greenwood grave.

The Fireman’s Boy. 33

Mother, look out and see that light--
How red it makes the sky;
Oh, ’tis a grand though fearful sight!
See how the bright sparks fly!

It is a house on fire, my son,--
An agonizing sight;
It serves to make more deep the gloom
That haunts my soul to-night.

Mother, what dreadful noise is that,
Which thunders o’er the pave?
Who are those men in pretty caps
And shirts of red, so brave?

’Tis the heavy engines, son, that make
The deafening noise you hear;
Those gallant men with pretty hats
Are firemen brave, my dear.

Oh, were my father but alive,
Would you not, mother, try
To make him be a fireman too?
But, ah! why do you cry?

I would not chill the sunny glow
That nestles in thy breast,
Nor have thy little heart to know
The pangs which mine oppress.

Nay, mother, pray confide to me
The griefs which wring thy heart;
I’m sure I do not wish to be
More happy than thou art.

God bless thee, boy; I can but weep,
Yet ’tis with mingled joy,
To think how like thy father’s self
Thou art, my noble boy!

He was a fireman, gallant, brave,
As ever grasp’d a robe;
A nobler heart ne’er beat to save
The sufferer void of hope.

One stormy night, the deep-toned bell,
The firemen summon’d forth
To duty; but, alas! he fell,
My dearest hope on earth.

He fearless rush’d through smoke and flame
To save a hapless child,
Whose fearful screams he heard amid
The din and storm so wild.
34
His brave companions brought him forth,
And many a manly tear
Coursed down their blacken’d cheeks,
And fell upon a fireman’s bier.

’Mid Greenwood’s consecrated bloom,
The drooping willow weeps
Its dewy tear, beside the tomb
Where thy brave father sleeps.

Oh, ’twere a noble death to die!
My heart swells big with pride!
And though I weep, yet proud am I
To think how father died.

I wish that I were but a man,
In firemen’s rig I’d dress;
“Hurrah, my boys, don’t lag!” I’d shout
As loudly as the rest.

What though I met my father’s fate?
I am sure I could not die
In nobler cause, nor half so great:
But, mother, do not cry.

God bless thee, boy! and ever may
Untarnish’d be thy name;
Let cowards skulk, crave thou a way
That leads to endless fame.

’Tis winter now, but when the spring
Returns, my boy shall go
With me where wild birds sweetly sing,
And fragrant flowers grow.

To-morrow I will give thee seed
Of flowers choice to save;
And when we go to Greenwood, plant
Them round the fireman’s grave.

I grieve to see thee, mother, look
So very pale and worn;
I would I could restore the rose
Grief from thy cheek has torn.

How often, when so lovingly,
You kiss me in my bed,
I cry myself to sleep, and dream
I see my mother dead.

But my heart shall bless the fireman,
And sacred hold his name,
It proudly should emblazon’d be
Upon the scroll of fame.

Song of the Locomotive. 35

Beware! beware! for I come in my might,
With a scream and a scowl of scorn;
With a speed like the mountain eagle’s flight,
When he rides the breeze of morn.

Avaunt! avaunt! for I heed you not,
Nor pause for the cry of pain;
I rejoice o’er the slaughter my wheels have wrought,
And I laugh at the mangled slain.

Away--away--o’er valley; plain--
I sweep by with a voice of wrath;
In a fleecy cloud I wrap my train,
As I tread my iron path.

My bowels are fire, and my arm is steel,
My breath is a rolling cloud:
And my voice peels out as I onward wheel,
Like the thunder rolling loud.

All day, all day, do my sinews play,
When the sun’s bright rays are cast;
At the midnight hour I fly on my way,
Like a death-fiend howling past.

I bear the wealth of a thousand climes,
The spoils of a briny sea,
The produce of lands where the church-bells chime,
And the gold of the dark Caffree.

I roar on the beach of the roaring deep,
Where the sea-shells touch my wheels;
Through the desert land with a howl I sweep,
And the yellow harvest fields.

I speed through the city’s busy streets,
Where the thronging crowds are found.
Who fly at the sound of my iron feet,
Like the hare at the baying hound.

I traverse the regions of burning heat,
The Equator hears my scream;
And I breathe the silence of winter’s retreat,
Where the glittering snow-fields gleam.

The wild beasts fly when my voice they hear
Through the sounding forest ring,
And the sons of men stand mute with fear,
Of earth I am the king.--

Lager Bier Song. 36

Now, ladies and gentlemen, just in time,
_Chorus_--Swilly, willy, wink um boom,
To come and listen to mine rhyme,
_Chorus_--Swilly, willy, wink um boom.
My clothes is made of cash-e-mere,
_Chorus_--Swilly, willy, winkum, hire a saw,
By dam, I likes mine lager bier,
_Chorus_--Swilly, willy, winkum boom.

_Chorus._--Ri tu re an na, tu re an na,
Swilly, willy, winkum, hire a saw,
Ri tu re an na, tu re an na,
Swilly, willy, winkum boom.

One Dutchman he goes down for to Hetzel’s,
He call’d for lager bier and pretzels;
Young Hetzel brings the man his lager,
He says, “My son, I pay your fader.”

Now dis Dutchman was one very big bear,
He call’d for brote and Switzer kase;
And when he did his Switzer gizzle,
He thought that it was time for to mizzle.

De barkeeper say, “Pay for your rum.”
And den dat Dutchman tried to run;
De barkeeper let dat Dutchman fall,
You ought to hear dat Dutchman squall.

Dis Dutchman he begins and blows,
And de barkeeper hit him one in de nose,
He say, “Why don’t you pay your grub?”
And he ramm’d his head in a big slop-tub.

Dey took dat Dutchman to his frow,
And she called him one drunken sow;
Dat Dutchman he did curse and dam,
And she broke his head mit a big tin pan.

They sent out for one cow doctor,
And he said, “Mine very dear Dutch sir,
Of all de sick men you is de vurst,
You drink so much bier, by dam, you burst.”

Dey took dat Dutchman up to bed,
By dam, dat Dutchman he go dead;
Dey took and cut him up in slats,
Dey said he’d be good to poison rats.

And now, good folks, my song is done,
I hope dat I’ve offended none;
We lay our lager on de shelf,
If you want any more, you may sing it yourself.

The Old Whiskey Jug. 37

We’re anchor’d by the roadside, Jim,
Where oft we’ve sat before,
When you and I were weary, Jim,
When we were half seas-o’er;
When the bright full moon in splendor, Jim,
Shone down on you and I,
And the little stars kept winkin’, Jim,
As we drank the old jug dry.

Ah! those were happy days, Jim,
Those good old days of yore--
When Rockwood kept the tavern, Jim,
And Potter own’d the store;
When whiskey ran as freely, Jim,
As water in the brook,
And good men for their stomach’s sake
Their morning bitters took.

But times have changed since then, Jim,
And men have alter’d, too--
And some have undertaken, Jim,
To put rumsellers through:
They say that whiskey’s poison, Jim,
And many graves has dug:
That scores of _snakes_ and _devils_, Jim,
Are in our good old jug.

Who cares for all such prattle, Jim,
To them it may be sense--
We’ll lay when we’re a mind to, Jim,
Beneath the old rail fence;
This stuff they call _cold water_, Jim,
Won’t do for you and I;
We’ll pull the cork at leisure, Jim,
And drink the old jug dry.

Give ’em String and let ’em Went. 38

Life is but a span of horses
One is Age, the other Prime;
Up and down the hill our course is;
“Go in, ponies, make your time.”

Boyhood flies the whip of pleasure,
Youthful folly gives a stroke;
Manhood goads them at his leisure;
“Let ’em rip--they’re tough as oak.”

“Hi, yo! there: the stakes we’ll pocket;
To the winds let them be sent:
Time: 2 40--whip in socket:
Give ’em string and let ’em went.”

On the sunny road to fifty,
Prime is drown’d in Lethe’s stream;
Age is left old and unthrifty;
Life then proves a “one horse team.”

Age jogs on, grows quite unsteady,
Reels and slackens in his pace,
Kicks the bucket, always ready,
Gives it up--Death wins the race.

Go it while You’re Young.

Money’s scarce they say, and very well we know it,
Then surely the best way, is while you’re young to go it;
The banks are all flat broke, their rags are good for naught,
The specie’s all bespoke, then certainly you ought to--
_Go it_ while you’re young,
For when you’re old you _can’t_,
Let scandal hold her tongue
And bid dull care avaunt.

Now single men get wives, the States may soldiers need,
There’s plenty to be had, if parties are agreed;
Learn them all to shoot, to them it will be sport,
Say you’re fathers fought before, then certainly you ought to--
_Go it_ while you’re young, &c.