  No. 4. Maud Adair and I.Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. One year ago were we sixteen, Maud Adair and I, With lightsome tread we tript the green, Maud Adair and I; But Maud Adair is lying low, She left poor me three moons ago; We ne’er shall meet again below, Maud Adair and I. Chorus.—My Maud Adair! Sweet Maud Adair! We’ll meet again up in the sky, Maud Adair and I. One year ago, with hand in hand, Maud Adair and I, We roam’d the sunny hill and strand, Maud Adair and I; But one sad eve, with tearful eye, She whisper’d low a last “Good-by,”— We’ll meet again up in the sky, Maud Adair and I. Chorus.—My Maud Adair, &c. How happy were we, and how true, Maud Adair and I, Like elm and ivy, upward grew Maud Adair and I; Oh, be thy spirit ever near To whisper softly words of cheer! While God doth guard, what can we fear, Maud Adair and I? Chorus.—My Maud Adair, &c. Copied by permission, of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Wipe those tears away, Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Smile on me to-day; See the wind is freshly blowing, And the ship longs for the sea, Be to-day your smiles bestowing Sweetly, love, on me. Chorus.—Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Wipe those tears away; Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Smile on me to-day. Though ’tis sad to leave you, darling, I must no more stay, Think of me, Norina, darling, When I’m far away; And, although to part brings sadness, Keep your young heart light and free, Your sweet face adorn with gladness, Thinking still of me. Don’t you cry so, &c. Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Wipe those tears away, Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling, Smile on me to-day; When from work I rest a-weary, All my thoughts on you will be, And my life will not seem dreary, If you’re true to me. Don’t you cry so, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear, The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear; Some friends we loved are in their graves, and many are estranged, But in sunshine or in shadow, our hearts are never changed. We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear, The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear. We are growing old together, the ivy and the tree A fitting emblem is dear, of the love ’twixt you and me; To be worthy of each other in the past was all our aim, And ’tis pleasant now to know, dear, our hearts are still the same. We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear, The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear. We are growing old together, together may we die— Together may our spirits soar to our home beyond the sky; For we loved as few can love, dear, when life’s flowery paths we ranged, And though we’ve wander’d long here, our hearts have never changed. We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear, The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. Childhood’s days now pass before me Forms and scenes of long ago, Like a dream they hover o’er me, Calm and bright as Days that know no shade of sorrow, There my young heart pure and free, Joyful hail’d each coming morrow In the Cottage by the Sea. CHORUS. In the Cottage by the Sea, In the Cottage by the Sea, Joyful hail’d each coming morrow In the Cottage by the Sea. Fancy sees the rose-trees twining, Round the old and rustic door, And below, the white beach shining, Where I gather’d shells of yore. Hears my mother’s gentle warning, As she took me on her knee; And I feel again life’s morning, In the Cottage by the Sea. In the Cottage by the Sea, &c. What though years rolled above me, Though ’mid fairer scenes I roam, Yet I ne’er shall cease to love thee, Childhood’s dear and happy home! And when life’s long day is closing, Oh! how pleasant it would be; On some faithful heart reposing In the Cottage by the Sea. In the Cottage by the Sea, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. Ben Fisher had finish’d his hard day’s work, And he sat at his cottage door; His good wife Kate sat by his side, And the moonlight danced on the floor— The moonlight danced on the cottage floor, Her beams were clear and bright, As when he and Kate, twelve years before, Talk’d love in her mellow light. Talk’d love in her mellow light. Chorus.—The moonlight danced on the cottage floor, Her beams were clear and bright, As when he and Kate, twelve years before, Talk’d love in her mellow light. Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay, And never a dram drank he, So he loved at home with his wife to stay, And they chatted right merrily— Right merrily they chatted on, Her babe slept on her breast, While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile, On his father’s knee found rest, On his father’s knee found rest. Right merrily, &c. Ben told her how fast the potatoes grew, And the corn in the lower field, And the wheat on the hills was grown to seed, And promised a glorious yield. A glorious yield in the summer-time, And his orchard was doing fair, His sheep and his flock were in their prime, His farm all in good repair, His farm all in good repair. A glorious yield, &c. Kate said that her garden look’d beautiful, Her fowls and her calves were fat, The butter that Tommy that morning had churn’d, Would buy him a Sunday hat. That Jenny for pa a new shirt had made, And it was done, too, by the rule, That Neddy nicely could the garden spade. And Ann was up head at school. And Ann was up head at school. That Jenny for pa, &c. Ben slowly raised his toil-worn hand, Through his locks of grayish brown: “I’ll tell you, Kate, what I think,” said he, “We’re the happiest folks in town.” “I know,” said Kate, “that we all work hard Work and health go together I’ve found, For there’s Mrs. Bell does not work at all, And she’s sick the whole year round, And she’s sick the whole year round. I know,” said Kate, &c. “They are worth their thousands, so people say, But I ne’er saw them happy yet; ’Twould not be me that would take their gold, And live in a constant fret. My humble home has a light within, Mrs. Bell’s gold could not buy— Six lovely children, a merry heart, And a husband’s love-lit eye, And a husband’s love-lit eye. My humble home, &c.” I fancied a tear was in Ben’s fine eye, The moon shone brighter and clearer, I could not tell why the man should cry, But he hitch’d up to Kate still nearer. He lean’d his head on her shoulder there, And he took her hand in his, And I guess (though I look’d at the moon just then), That he left on her lips a kiss, That he left on her lips a kiss. He lean’d his head, &c. CHORUS. The old brown cot, the low brown cot, The moss-grown cot beneath the hill; Though years have pass’d since I was there, I love it, oh, I love it still. It stood beside the running brook Whose waters turn’d the noisy mill; And close beside the tall old oaks That nodded on the sloping hill. The woodbine creeping o’er the walls, The sunshine on the grassy plot, How beautiful were they to me, When home was in that old brown cot! The old brown cot, &c. Though I may view the fairest land On which the sun in glory beams, And dwell in climes more beautiful Than poets visit in their dreams, Still will affection linger round That loved and consecrated spot, And tears will fall as I go back To boyhood and the old brown cot. The old brown cot, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. Oh! come my love, the moon shines bright, Across yon rippling sea, Come let thy heart be gay and light, And hasten love wi’ me. ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met Beneath the greenwood tree, Then let thy heart be lighter yet, Come, gang awa’ wi’ me. ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met, Beneath the greenwood tree, Then let thy heart be lighter yet, Come gang awa’ wi’ me. Oh! tarry not, my only love, I’ve pledged myself to thee, And by yon stars that shine above, Forever thine I’ll be; ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met Beneath the greenwood tree, Then say, ere yonder stars have set, Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me. ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met Beneath the greenwood tree, Then say ere yonder Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me. Thy features are so fair my love, Thy mind is ever free, Oh! let thy willing heart still prove The love thou bear’st to me. ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met Beneath the greenwood tree, Then say ere yonder stars have set, I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye. ’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met, Beneath the greenwood tree. Then say, ere yonder stars have set, I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. Oh, Linda’s gone to Baltimore, To stay a week or two, And till she comes safe home again, I don’t know what to do. I take the banjo on my knee, But can not hear to play, For music only makes me sad, When Linda’s gone away, When Linda’s gone away. CHORUS. Oh, my heart am very lonely All the night and day, For every thing seems sad and drear, When Linda’s gone away. I think of all the olden times We’ve had when she was here, I did not know ’till she was gone, That she was half so dear. The flowers are blooming all around And all but me are gay, For all the time I think or dream Of Linda far away. Chorus.—Oh, my heart am very lonely, &c. Though many years have pass’d and gone Since we were in our prime, I loved her more as on we roam’d Adown the Vale of Time! How very much she thinks of me, I should not dare to say; But oh, it always breaks my heart When Linda’s gone away. Chorus.—Oh, my heart am very lonely, &c. CHORUS. Shool, Shool, Shool, agrah! Time can only ease my woe, Since the lad of my heart from me did go Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier. Some say my love is gone to France, There his fortune to advance, And if I find him it’s but a chance,— Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier, Shool, Shool, &c. I’ll sell my frock, I’ll sell my wheel, I’ll buy my love a sword of steel, So in the battle he may reel,— Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier. Shool, Shool, &c. I wish I was on yonder hill, It’s there I’d sit and cry my fill, So every tear may turn a mill,— Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier. Shool, Shool, &c. I’ll dye my dress, I’ll dye it red, All over the world I’ll beg my bread, So my parents may think me dead— Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier. Shool, Shool, &c. CHORUS. Oh, kiss me quick, and let me go, Don’t keep me here a waiting, For if by chance we should be caught, It would set the gals a talking. She’s fond of kissing, that I know, So often as I meet her, She says, “Kiss me quick, and let me go, You’ll love me all the better.” At evening when the room was dark, And time was getting later, I thought I’d steal a kiss from her, And I kiss’d the Nigger Waiter. Oh, kiss me quick, &c. Oh, now I’ll give you good advice, When you go a sparking, Don’t do your kissing in the dark, For fear your lips of marking. But choose the day and fear no shame, If its not distressing, I’m sure its nothing very new, For we’re all so fond of kissing. Oh, kiss me quick, and let me go, &c. Copied by When love grows warm there is a charm, And oft a sacred bliss, When fond hearts greet for lips to meet In sweet affection’s kiss; But to reveal the sacred seal Which hallows it so well, May quench love’s flame with breath of shame, So kiss, but never tell. CHORUS. Oh, kiss, but never tell, oh never! Breathing breaks the spell. True lovers pledged to keep forever, Kiss, but never tell. At night, when eyes like stars beam bright, And kindred souls commune, And heart to heart love’s vows impart, Beneath the smiling moon: At such an hour of magic power, What hallow’d raptures dwell, In each true breast by honor blest, To kiss, and never tell. CHORUS. Then kiss but never tell, Breathing breaks the spell, True lovers pledged to keep forever, Kiss, but never tell! Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. Somebody’s courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody’s whispering to somebody, Under the clear moonlight, Near the bright river’s flow, Running so still and slow; Talking so soft and low, She sits with somebody. Somebody’s courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody’s listening to somebody Under the clear moonlight, Under the clear moonlight. Pacing the ocean shore, Edged by the foaming roar, Words never breathed before, Sound sweet to somebody; Under the maple-tree, Deep though the shadow be, Plain enough they can see, Bright eyes has somebody. Somebody’s courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody’s listening to somebody Under the clear moonlight, Under the clear moonlight. No one sits up to wait, Though she is out so late, All know she’s at the gate Talking with somebody; Two sitting side by side, Float with the ebbing tide, “Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life,” says somebody. Somebody’s courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody’s listening to somebody Under the clear moonlight, Under the clear moonlight. Copied by My brow is seam’d o’er with the iron of years, And the snow threads are gleaming the furrows among, My eyes have grown dim in the shadow of tears, Where the flowers of my soul have died as they sprung, But memory bears to me on its broad wings Bright images true of my earliest life, And there, ’mid the fairest of all that is seen, Is the little low room where I courted my wife, Is the little low room where I courted my wife. That low, humble room seem’d a palace of light, As love held his torch, and illumined the scene, With glory of state and profusion bedight, Where I was a monarch, my darling a queen; Ourselves were our subjects, pledged loyal were each, And which should love best was our heartiest strife; What tales could it tell, if possessing a speech, That little low room where I courted my wife, That little low room where I courted my wife. Warm vows has it heard, the warmest e’er spoke, Where lips have met lips in holy embrace, Where feelings that never to utterance woke, It saw oft reveal’d in a duplicate face; The sweet hours hasten’d, how quickly they flew, With fervent devotion and ecstasy rife! Our hearts throbb’d the hours, but how I ne’er knew, In the little low room where I courted my wife, In the little low room where I courted my wife. The romance of youth lent its rapturous zest, And fairydom knew no delight like our own; Our words were but few, but they were the best, A dialect sweet for ourselves all alone. So anxious to hear what the other might say, We neither could utter a word for our life; Thus the hours, in silence, pass’d quickly away In the little low room where I courted my wife, In the little low room where I courted my wife. Long years have since pass’d o’er my darling and I, The roses have vanish’d away from her cheek, But the merciless moments, as onward they fly, Leave love still undimm’d in her bosom so meek; That love is the light to our faltering feet, Our comfort in hours with sorrowing rife, Our blessings in joy, as with joy ’twas replete, In the little low room where I courted my wife, In the little low room where I courted my wife. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. Stand by the flag, its folds have stream’d in glory, To foes a fear, to friends a festal robe, And spread in rythmic lines the sacred story, Of freedom’s triumphs over all the globe; Stand by the flag on land and ocean billow; By it your fathers stood unmoved and true; Living defended; dying, from their pillow, With their last blessing, pass’d it on to you. Stand by the flag, though death-shots round it rattle; And underneath its waving folds have met, In all the dread array of sanguine battle, The quivering lance and glittering bayonet, Stand by the flag, all doubt and treason scorning, Believe with courage firm and faith sublime That it will float until the eternal morning Pales in its glories all the lights of time. CHORUS. Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah, The gal from the South; Her hair it curl’d so very tight, She could not shut her mouth. Her nose, it was so very long, It turn’d up like a squash, And when she got her dander up, She made me laugh, by gosh! Old Massa had no hooks or nails Or nothing else like that, So on this darkie’s nose he used To hang his coat and hat. Chorus.—Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah, &c. One morning Massa going away, He went to get his coat, But neither hat nor coat was there, For she had swallow’d both. He took her to a tailor shop, To have her mouth made small, The lady took in one long breath, And swallow’d tailor and all! Chorus.—Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. White folks, I am goin’ to sing A song dat am quite new, Ob myself an’ banjo-string, An’ you, an’ you, an’ you! Oh, Sam, don’t laugh, I say, Our strings will keep in tune, Just listen to de banjo play For de white folks ’round de room! CHORUS. Den commence you darkies all, As loud as you can bawl! Commence you darkies all, to-night. Touch light de banjo-string, An’ rattle de ole jaw-bone, Oh, merrily sound de tamborine, An’ make de fiddle hum; An’ make de fiddle hum, old dad; De way dem bones will shake, Am a caution to all living niggs, An’ a deff to rattlesnakes. Den commence, &c. “Oh, for a piano or guitar!” I hear a fair one cry; But when I hear dese instruments, I tink I’d like to die. I tink I’d like to die, I does, I could lay me down to rest, For music hab such ’lodious sounds To soothe dis darkey’s breast. Den commence, &c. When I go to promenade, I look so fine an’ gay, I hab to take de dogs along Te keep de gals away; My busom am so full ob lub, Dis darkey can not rest, So I’ll bid you all good-by, at last, An’ trabble to de West. Den commence, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright. The pennon flutters in the breeze, The anchor comes a-peak, “Let fall sheet home, The briny foam and ocean’s waste we seek; The booming gun speaks our adieu. Fast fades our native shore, Columbia free shall rule the sea, Britannia ruled of yore. We go the tempest’s wrath to dare, The billows’ madden’d play, Now climbing high against the sky, Now rolling low away; While Yankee oak bears Yankee hearts, Courageous to the core, Columbia free shall rule the sea, Britannia ruled of yore. We’ll bear her flag around the world, In thunder and in flame, The sea-girt isles a wreath of smiles Shall form around her name; The winds shall pipe her pÆans loud, The billowy chorus roar Columbia free shall rule the sea, Britannia ruled of yore. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. I wish he would decide, Mamma, I wish he would decide, I’ve been a bridesmaid many time, When shall I be a bride; My cousin Anne and sister Fan, The nuptial knot have tied, Yet come what will I’m single still, Yet come what will I’m single still, I wish he would decide. When shall I be a bride, When shall I be a bride, For come what will I’m single still, I wish he would decide. He takes me to the play, Mamma, And brings me pretty books, He woos me with his eyes, Mamma, Such speechless things he looks. Where e’er I roam, abroad, at home, He lingers by my side, Yet come what will I’m single still, Yet come what will I’m single still, I wish he would decide. When When shall I be a bride, For come what will I’m single still, I wish he would decide. I’ve thrown out many a hint, Mamma, I’ve spoke of other beaux, I’ve talk’d about domestic life, And sung “They don’t propose.” Then if he means to break, Mamma, My passion and my pride, Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret, Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret, Although he won’t decide, Although he won’t decide, Although he won’t decide, Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret, Although he won’t decide. Chorus. Then come along, come along, make no delay, Come sign the temperance pledge, sign it right away, For if you do but keep it, you need not fear alarm But you will soon be rich enough to buy a handsome farm. The temperance cause is spreading o’er this our native land, And Alchy with his subjects know not where to make a stand. His army is decreasing, and soon there’ll be but few, Who to oppose the temperance cause on Alchy’s smiles get blue. The drunkard is so foolish that he will money waste, On liquor, when there’s water more pleasant to the taste; The water is much cheaper, and much more healthy too, And never makes a man a fool—which liquors often do. It never yet caused people to quarrel and to fight, Or come home intoxicated at twelve o’clock at night. Cold water never caused man in the gutter to be found, And never, as I know of, to feel upward for the ground. Now if you only hasten our pledge to come and sign, To leave off drinking brandy, rum, cider, gin, and wine, You can not help but prosper in your business through life, Provided you have with you a nice teetotal wife. CHORUS. Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, Sparking Sunday night? How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest, How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest! Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight, Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night? Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed, Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said. “Love ye one another,” ministers recite; Bless me, DON’T we do it—sparking Sunday night? One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist, You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste, She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite; Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night? But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum, As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go has COME. You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!” And wonder if IT ever—sparked on Sunday night! One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook; But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took; Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight, Don’t you wish EACH DAY was only Sunday night? Answer of Katy Darling.Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling, There my smiles you may ever more behold. I believed not you were false to Katy Darling. Or that your love had ever grown cold. Oh no, I could not believe That my Dermot was untrue. No love was like the love of Katy Darling, Search the world you will find very few. I’m ever near you, dearest. When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy Darling Is watching by her dear Dermot’s side, Your loving and beloved Katy Darling, Her spirit will ever be your guide. When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling, Katy’s spirit will meet with you there, Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling, This bright world is free from all care. By my grave I see you weeping In the silent starry light, I long to have you with your Katy Darling, Happy you’d be with her this night. I hear you dear Dermot. And every night by the grave of Katy Darling, She will meet you till you lie by her side, Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling, Dear Dermot and his much loved bride. Sprig of Shillelah.Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman; He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can; With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green. His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found; He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights For love—all for love—for in that he delights, With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green. Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair? An Irishman all in his glory is there, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown, He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows, From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while. To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that, A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?” With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green? “Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth, Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon. United and happy, at liberty’s shrine, May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.” The Low Back’d Car.When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’Twas on a market day; A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay. But when that hay was blooming grass, And deck’d with flowers of spring, No flowers were there that could compare With the lovely girl I sing, As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar, Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll, But look’d after the Low Back’d Car. In battle’s wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tythes, Of death in warlike scars; But Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly; As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far, For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart That is hit from the Low Back’d Car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese; But the scores of hearts she slaughters, By far outnumber these. While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming God of Love. As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar, And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking, As she rides in her Low Back’d Car. I’d rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, With a lady for my bride. For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist. As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar, Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye, As we rode in the Low Back’d Car. Poor Old Maids.Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids, What will become of us, poor old maids? Fourscore and four of us, Without a penny in our purse, What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids? Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids, Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids, Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, Nursing cats is all we do, Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids. All alone we go to bed, poor old maids, All alone we go to bed, poor old maids, All alone we go to bed, And not a word to us is said, And not a word to us is said, poor old maids. We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids, We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids, We’re all in a willing mind, If the men would be so kind, As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids. And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids, And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids, And if there’s any in this room, I hope they’ll marry very soon, And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids. O God! Preserve the Mariner.Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music. O God! preserve the mariner, When o’er the troubled deep The rolling thunder-lightning flash, And howling tempests sweep; When like a reed the tall mast shakes, And human art is vain, O God! restore the mariner To home, dear home again. The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest, But dreams disturb her sleep, She starts to hear the hollow wind, And turns aside to weep; She clasps her baby, and she prays, Through tears, like falling rain, “O God! restore the mariner, To home, dear home again.” The widow for her darling child, Her bosom’s only joy, Invokes the Power that rules the storm, For blessings on her boy. When ruin lurketh in the cloud, And death sweeps o’er the main, O God! restore the mariner, To home, dear home again. A Merry Gipsy Girl again.Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. A merry Gipsy girl again, I’m free to rove at will: The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet, The valley and the hill How poor the proudest roof ye boast To that high-arched dome, Whose boundless circle makes me think The whole wide world my home. Here none can bar the free fresh air, Nor mete out heaven’s light, Nor make the glorious day appear Too near akin to night. Amid the beauties of the mead My summer days are spent, And joyfully the stars look down Upon my Gipsy tent; And joyfully the stars look down Upon my Gipsy tent. I wander freely as the fawn Which hath not learnt to fear The death-cry of the hunter’s voice Resounding far and near; And bounding through the woods I feel as if I too could soar, Bird-like, upon the wings of joy, And sing for evermore! Come out, ye pent-up toilers! Come, from city dark and drear, And see what gladness Nature has In all her beauties here; And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say, Your time has well been spent, And wish that all the world Could be, one happy Gipsy tent; And wish that all the world Could be, one happy Gipsy tent. Let Me Kiss Him for His Mother.Let me kiss him for his mother, Let me kiss his youthful brow; I will love him for his mother, And seek her blessing now. Kind friends have soothed his pillow, Have watch’d his every care; Beneath the weeping willow, Oh, lay him gently there. CHORUS. Sleep, dearest, sleep; I love you as a brother; Kind friends around you weep, I’ve kiss’d you for your mother, Let me kiss him for his mother, What though left a stranger here? She has loved him as none other, I feel her blessing near. Though cold that form lies sleeping, Sweet angels watch around; Dear friends are near thee weeping; Oh, lay him gently down. Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c. Let me kiss him for his mother, Or perchance a sister dear; If a father or a brother, I know their blessing’s here. Then kiss him for his mother: ’Twill soothe her after-years; Farewell, dear stranger brother, Our requiem, our tears. Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c. My ain Fireside.Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music. Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as, ’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws, At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been, Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een, CHORUS. But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied, As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside, My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside. Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle, Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle; Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad. Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c. Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer; O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried, There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside. Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c. The Indian Warrior’s Grave.Green is the grave by the wild dashing river, Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiver Where in his pride he roved in his childhood Fought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood. In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending, Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending; Where the pale foe and he struggled together, Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather. Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried; And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried. But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers, Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers. Indian Hunter.Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track? Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back? He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze Bear riches for him alone— And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood, Which the white man calls his own. Yha, yha! Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim? Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him! Yha, yha, yha! The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine— There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine. The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell, And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well. Yha, yha! Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim, To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him. Yha, yha, yha! Chorus. Her heart with truth teeming, her eye with smiles beaming, What mortal could injure a blossom so fair. Oh, Norah, dear Norah, the Pride of Kildare. Where e’er I may be, love, I’ll ne’er forget thee, love, Though beauties may smile and try to ensnare, Yet nothing shall ever, my heart from thine sever, Dear Norah, sweet Norah, the Pride of Kildare. Copied by permission of Wm. Hall & Son, 543 Broadway, N. Y., Publishers of the music and owners of the copyright. In the Hazel Dell my Nelly’s sleeping, Nelly loved so long, And my lonely, lonely watch I’m keeping, Nelly lost and gone; Here in moon-light often we have wandered, Through the silent shade, Now where leafy branches drooping, Downward little Nelly’s laid. CHORUS. All alone my watch I’m keeping, In the Hazel Dell, For my darling Nelly’s near me sleeping, Nelly dear, farewell. In the Hazel Dell my Nelly’s sleeping, Where the flowers wave, And the silent stars are nightly weeping, O’er poor Nelly’s grave, Hopes that once my bosom fondly cherished, Smile no more for me, Every dream of joy alas has perished, Nelly dear, with thee. All alone my watch, &c. Now I’m weary, friendless and forsaken, Watching here alone, Nelly, thou no more will fondly cheer me, With thy loving tone, Yet forever shall thy gentle image, In my memory dwell, And my tears thy lonely grave shall moisten, Nelly dear, farewell. All alone my watch, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music. Oh, come with me to the old kirk-yard, I well know the path through the soft, green sward; Friends slumber there we were wont to regard, We’ll trace out their names in the old kirk-yard. Oh, mourn not for them, their grief is o’er, Oh, weep not for them, they weep no more. For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard, Their pillow may be in the old kirk-yard. I know it is vain when friends depart, To breathe kind words to a broken heart; I know that the joy of life seems marr’d; When we follow them home to the old kirk-yard. But were I at rest beneath yon tree, Why should’st thou weep, dear love, for me? I’m way-worn and sad, ah, why then retard, The rest that I seek in the old kirk-yard? Copied by When o’er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we’ve cheerless gone, Oh! they who’ve felt it, know how sweet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet! Sparkling on deck is every eye; “Ship a-hoy! ship a-hoy!” our joyful cry. When answering back we faintly hear, “Ship a-hoy! what cheer! what cheer!’” Now sails aback we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends at home; But soon, too soon, we part in pain, To sail o’er silent seas again, To sail o’er silent seas again. When o’er the ocean’s dreary plain, With toil her destined port to gain, Our gallant ship has near’d the strand, We claim our own, our native land, We claim our own, our native land; Sweet is the seaman’s joyous shout, “Land ahead! land ahead! look out! look out!” Around on deck we gayly fly, “Land ahead! land ahead!” with joy we cry; Yon beacon light directs our way, While grateful vows to Heaven we pay, And soon our long-lost joys renew, And bid the boisterous main adieu, And bid the boisterous main adieu. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. You speak of sunny skies to me— Of orange grove and bower— Of winds that wake soft melody From leaf and blooming flower; And you may prize those far-off skies, But tempt not me to roam; In sweet content my days are spent, Then wherefore leave my home? In sweet content my days are spent, Then wherefore leave my home? You tell me oft of rivers bright, Where golden galleys float; But have you seen our lakes by night, Or sail’d in Alpine boat? You speak of lands where hearts and hands Will greet me as I come, But though I find true hearts and kind, They’re kinder still at home. But though I find true hearts and kind, They’re kinder still at home. Had you been rear’d by Alpine hills, Or lived in Alpine dells, You’d prize, like me, our mountain rills, Nor fear the torrent swells; It matters not how drear the spot How proud or poor the dome, Love still retains some deathless chains, That binds the heart to home. Love still retains some deathless chains, That binds the heart to home. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music. By the sad sea-waves I listen, while they moan A lament o’er graves Of hope and pleasure gone. I am young, I was fair, I had once not a care From the rising of the morn To the setting of the sun. Yet I pine like a slave, By the sad sea-wave. Come again bright days Of hope and pleasure gone; Come again, bright days, Come again, come again. From my care last night, By holy sleep beguiled, In the fair dream-light My home upon me smiled. Oh, how sweet ’mid the dew, Every flower that I knew Breathed a gentle welcome back To the worn and weary child! I wake in my grave By the sad sea-wave; Come again, dear dream, So peacefully that smiled, Come again, dear dream, Come again, come again. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. Daylight is on the sea! Love, do not stay; Land is no place for me, I must away! My bark is on the waves, My boat ashore; The surge its broadside laves, While sleeps each oar. CHORUS. Daylight is on the sea, Land is no place for me; Come away, love, come away, love, I dare no longer stay; Come away, love, away, love, I dare no longer stay. Come away, away, away, away, away, I dare no longer stay, Away, away, away, away, away, I dare no longer stay. Daylight plays o’er the deep, Like childhood’s smile; Blue waves and hush’d winds sleep, Enchain’d awhile! My bark is on the waves, My boat ashore, The surge its broadside laves, While sleeps each oar. Daylight is on the sea, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. Kate was once a little girl, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Eyes of blue, and teeth of pearl, Heigh ho! heigh ho! In the spring, when school was done, Full of life and full of fun, O’er the hills away she’d run, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Gentle breezes all the day, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Through her sunny locks would play, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Still on her cheek as brightly plays The sunshine of her youthful days, And still as sweet her girlish ways, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Kate’s a little older now, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Still as fair her radiant brow, Heigh ho! heigh ho! All her thoughts are pure and bright, As the stars we see at night, Shining with a joyous light, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Kate will always be the same, Heigh ho! heigh ho! She’ll never change except in name, Heigh ho! heigh ho! So gently time shall steal away, She’ll always be as bright and gay, As when she laugh’d in girlhood’s day, Heigh ho! heigh ho! Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. You’re looking as fresh as the morn, darling, You’re looking as bright as the day; But while on your charms I’m dilating, You’re stealing my poor heart away. But keep it and welcome, mavourneen, Its loss I’m not going to mourn; Yet one heart’s enough for a body, So pray give me yours in return. Mavourneen, mavourneen, Oh! pray give me yours in return. I’ve built me a neat little cot, darling, I’ve pigs and potatoes in store; I’ve twenty good pounds in the bank, love, And may be, a pound or two more. It’s all very well to have riches, But I’m such a covetous elf, I can’t help still sighing for something, And, darling, that something’s yourself. Mavourneen, mavourneen, And that something, you know, is yourself. You’re smiling, and that’s a good sign, darling; Say “Yes,” and you’ll never repent; Or, if you would rather be silent, Your silence I’ll take for consent. That good-natured dimple’s a tell-tale, Now all that I have is your own, This week you may be Kitty Tyrrell, Next week you’ll be Mistress Malone. Mavourneen, mavourneen, You’ll be my own Mistress Malone. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. ’Twas within a mile of Edinboro’ town, In the rosy time of the year, Sweet flowers bloom’d and the grass was down, And each shepherd woo’d his dear; Bonny Jocky blithe and gay, Kiss’d sweet Jenny makin’ hay, The lassie blush’d and frowning cried, No no, it will not do, I can not, can not, wonnot, wonnot, monnot buckle too. Jocky was a wag that never would wed, Though long he had follow’d the lass, Contented she earn’d and eat her brown bread, And merrily turn’d up the grass. Bonny Jocky blithe and free, Won her heart right merrily; Yet still she blush’d and frowning cried, No no, it will not do, I can not, &c. But when he vow’d he would make her his bride. Though his flocks and herds were not few She gave him her hand and a kiss beside, And vow’d she’d forever be true. Bonny Jocky blithe and free; Won her heart right merrily; At church she no more frowning cried. No, no, it will not do, I can not, &c. CHORUS. Then lay down the agricultural implements, Allow the violin and the bow to be pendent on the wall.— For there is no more physical energy to be displayed by indigent aged Edward, For he has departed to the abode designated by a kind Providence for all pious, humane, and benevolent individuals. Uncle Edward had digits equal in longitude to the Bamboo formation which springs so spontaneously on the bank of the Southern Mississippi, And he had no oculars with which to observe The beauties of nature, And he had no dental formations with which to Masticate the Indian meal cake, Consequently he was forced to permit the Indian meal cake to pass by with impunity. Chorus.—Then lay down, &c. When Uncle Ned relinquished his hold on vitality, His master was exceedingly grieved, And the lachrymal poured down his cheeks similar to the rain from heaven, For he knew that the old man was laid beneath terra firma, terra firma, He would never have the pleasure of beholding the physiognomy of the aged Edward any more. Chorus.—Then lay down, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. I was gwan to Sandy Point de oder arternoon, Dis nigger’s heel cum’b out ob joint a running arter a coon; I thought I see’d him on a log, a lookin’ mighty quar Wen I cum’d up to de log, de coon he wasn’t dar. CHORUS. Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, now come along, oh do; Oh, what will uncle Gabriel say? ya eh eh eh ya eh eh eh; What will Uncle Gabriel say, why Jinny can’t you come along too? I blow’d de horn, I call’d de dog, and tell him for to bark; I hunt all night in de hollow log, but de coon he still keep dark; At last I hear de ole coon sneeze, de dog he fly around, And on to him he den did freeze, and pull him to the ground. Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c. De coon he lay upon de ground, as stiff as any post; I knock him den upon de head, and he gabe up de ghost; I took him to de old log house, as soon as he suspire; He look’d just like a little mouse, and we roast him on de fire. Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c. De niggers dey come all around, and kick up a debil of a splutter. Dey eat de coon and clar de ground, to dance de chicken flutter, Dey dance all night till de broke of day, to a tune on de old banjo, And den dey all did gwan away, before de chicken crow. Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music. He led her to the altar, But the bride was not his chosen; He led her with a hand as cold As though its pulse had frozen. Flowers were crush’d beneath his tread, A gilded dome was o’er him; But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale, As the marble steps before him. CHORUS. He led her to the altar, But the bride was not his chosen; He led her with a hand as cold As though its pulse had frozen. His soul was sadly dreaming, Of one he had hoped to cherish; Of a name and form that the sacred rites, Beginning, told must perish. He gazed not on the stars and gems Of those who circled round him; But trembled as his lips gave forth The words that falsely bound him. He led her to the altar, &c. Many a heart was praising, Many a hand was proffer’d; But mournfully he turn’d him From the greeting that was offer’d. Despair had fix’d upon his brow Its deepest, saddest token, And the bloodless cheek and stifled sigh Betray’d his heart was broken. He led her to the altar, &c. Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music. Where are now the hopes I cherish’d? Where the joys that once were mine? Gone forever—all have perish’d, And the blighter’s hand was thine! Look upon me, and remember Thy Norma ere she was betray’d; Look again, and look exulting, On the ruin thou hast made; Look again, and look exulting, On the ruin thou hast made. Canst thou think, as thou dost listen To thy children’s artless songs, Of that moment when their fond hearts, First shall feel their mother’s wrongs? Ha! thou shrinkest like the lightning, To thy bosom fell remorse shall dart, And thou yet shall know the anguish Which hath broken my poor heart; And thou yet shall know the anguish Which hath broken my poor heart. Copied by permission of Wm. Hall & Son, 547 Broadway, N. Y., owners of the copyright. It was down in Louisiana, Not many years ago, I fell in lub wid a pretty gal, And her name was Jane Monroe; Her eyes was bright as diamonds, Her teeth was white as snow— Oh, de prettiest gal I eber saw, Was charming Jane Monroe! CHORUS. But now she is far, far away, And we hear from her ebery day; And if she was here we’d have nothing to fear, For we darkies all lub her so gay. She was like a model, From her head down to her toe, And sprightly as de hopper grass, Was charming Jane Monroe. I’d rather be a slave for life, And hab de corn to hoe, Dan to be free, and lib widout My charming Jane Monroe. But now she is far, far away, &c. A darkey trader came one day, And bought my gal from me, And left me here alone to mourn Beneaf de cypress-tree; It fill’d my heart wid grief an’ pain, To think dey’d treat me so, But I live in hopes to meet again My charming Jane Monroe. But now she far, far away, &c. CHORUS. So, throw away the bottle and the jug! Hang up the dipper and the mug! There’s no more hard drink for old Uncle Tim, For he’s thrown away the bottle and the jug! Uncle Tim had a nose like a red woolen sack, And the pimples on his face not a few; And he had one eye that was very, very black, And the other t’other one was blue! The hair on his head was like a mop on a stick, And he had but one leg for to go; So you see he couldn’t go for to come it very quick, So he had to, and go it very slow. Uncle Tim was a hard one, and he used to take his T, And the way he used to take it wasn’t slow; And the kind he used to take it wasn’t Bohee, If it had a been it wouldn’t have served him so. Oh! he toddled, t’other day, into the William Tell A noted loafer’s cubby-hole, you know; Where they sell for medicine the raw material, And sea-turtles caught in the Ohio. He drank and he spree’d till his money was all gone, And he couldn’t drink and spree it any more; And then they kick’d him out, and he went zigzag home, Just as he’d done many times before. Then the Devil, with the poker, and all the evil ones, Got after him and worried him full sore; Says he, “Old joker, I’m going to join the Sons, So you can’t come it never any more!” Now come, you liquor-sellers, and you liquor-drinkers too: Give up the bad practice, and be men! Come up and join the Sons, and stick to them, too, And never touch the filthy stuff again! OF Beadle’s Dime Military Song Book AND SONGS FOR THE WAR.
OF Beadle’s Dime Union Song Book No. 1.
OF Beadle’s Dime Union Song Book No. 2.
OF Beadle’s Dime Song Book No. 1.
OF Beadle’s Dime Song Book No. 2.
OF Beadle’s Dime Song Book No. 3.
OF Beadle’s Dime Song Book No. 5.
OF Beadle’s Dime Song Book No. 6.
BEADLE’S DIME COOK-BOOK, BEADLE’S DIME RECIPE-BOOK, BEADLE’S DIME DRESS-MAKER AND MILLINER, BEADLE’S DIME BOOK OF ETIQUETTE, BEADLE’S DIME FAMILY PHYSICIAN. The COOK-BOOK embraces Recipes, Directions, Rules and Facts relating to every department of Housekeeping. The RECIPE-BOOK is a perfect treasure house of knowledge, for the kitchen, parlor, nursery, sick-room, the toilet, &c., &c. The BOOK OF ETIQUETTE can truly be called a useful work. It embodies all the information necessary to “post” the reader, old or young, male or female, upon every point of etiquette or social usage. The FAMILY PHYSICIAN is an invaluable hand-book for the family and an indispensable aid to the thrifty housewife. BOOKS FOR THE SCHOOL AND HOME STUDENTS.BEADLE’S DIME SPEAKER Nos. 1 & 2, BEADLE’S DIME DIALOGUES Nos. 1 & 2, BEADLE’S DIME SCHOOL MELODIST, BEADLE’S DIME LETTER-WRITER. This series of educational works is designed to meet the wants of every school, public or private—every scholar, male or female, in our country. MUSIC AND SONG.Beadle’s Dime Song Books, No’s 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7 BEADLE’S DIME MELODIST—Words and Music. GAMES, AMUSEMENTS, &C.BEADLE’S DIME BASE-BALL PLAYER, BEADLE’S DIME GUIDE TO CRICKET, BEADLE’S DIME GUIDE TO SWIMMING, BEADLE’S DIME BOOK OF DREAMS, BEADLE’S DIME BOOK OF FUN, Nos. 1 & 2, BEADLE’S DIME CHESS INSTRUCTOR. BEADLE’S DIME BIOGRAPHICAL LIBRARY.No. 1.—GARIBALDI: The Washington of Italy. No. 2.—DANIEL BOONE: The Hunter of Kentucky. No. 3.—KIT CARSON: The Rocky Mountain Scout and Guide. No. 4.—MAJOR-GENERAL ANTHONY WAYNE: The Revolutionary Patriot and Indian Conqueror. No. 5.—COL. DAVID CROCKETT: And His Adventures. No. 6.—JOHN PAUL JONES: The Naval Hero of ’76. Send Him The Military Hand-Book. The great want of a MILITARY HAND-BOOK of General and Special Information on all matters connected with a Soldier’s Life and Experience, has induced the publishers of the Dime Publications to have prepared, by competent hands, a work which will fully answer the requirements of the market. They have, therefore, to announce THE MILITARY HAND-BOOK,AND SOLDIERS’ MANUAL OF INFORMATION. Embracing Pay-Lists of Officers and Men—Rations— Official Articles of War, AND A COMPLETE DICTIONARY OF MILITARY TERMS. ? This admirable volume is published in large 12mo., with a beautifully Engraved and Colored Cover, and can be had of all News Dealers at the low sum of TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 141 William St., New York. Dialect was not changed. Unprinted letters and punctuation were added, as necessary. Quotation marks were adjusted, where necessary. The first three entries to the contents of Union Songbook No. 1 are missing letters in the original. The last entry to contents of Dime Song Book No. 2 is out of alphabetical order in the original. Other changes:
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