Book _iM2T Willi THE UNIVERSAL SONGSTER AND MUSEUM OF MIRTH: A COLLECTION OF POPULAR SONGS. ARRANGED UNDER THE FOLLOWING HEADS : NATIONAL, SCOTCH, IRISH, NAVAL, MILITARY, SPORTING, COMIC, AMATORY, AND SENTIMENTAL. Bttetta, GSlttn, Htvion, (tfyovuntu, tot. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY CHARLES GAYLORD. 1835. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by Charles Gaylobd, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 'of CONTENTS. A Highland lad my love was born - 61 Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses - 63 As walking forth to view the plain 71 Assist me ye lads who have hearts void of guile - 90 As gray as a badger, as bald as a Turk - 91 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping - 95 Adown a dark alley I courted a maid, - 101 And did you ne'er hear of an Irish hay-maker 109 Away, away to the mountain's brow - - 115 At dawn Aurora gaily breaks - 116 An angler's life has joys for me - - 124 At Wapping I landed, and call'd - - 130 A jolly comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea 161 Adieu, adieu, my only life - 166 Away! away! - - 181 A round, a round - 189 A glass is good and a lass is good - - 195 A jolly fat Friar lov'd liquor good store - 207 A cobler I am, and my name is Dick Awl - 211 Away with those poor married fellows - 213 A little old woman her living got - - 214 'As you've call'd upon me to give you a song 228 A Priest of Kajaaga, as blind as a stone - 234 A story there runs of a marvellous well - - 238 At the baron of Mowbray's gate - - 258 Ah! what is the bosom's commotion - - 262 As the sun climbs over the hills - - 274 Away my bounding steed, away ,- - 278 As I walk'd out one May morning - - 284 A weary lot is thine fair maid - 291 Away with melancholy - - 295 Vlll CONTENTS. Ah! why did I gather this delicate flower - 304 Awake the harp's slumber - 304 Ave sanctissima - 311 Brave sons of the West - - -27 But are you sure the news is true 75 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear - 158 By the side of yon streamlet there grows - 171 Ben Backstay was a boatswain .-- 242 Come strike the bold Anthem - 28 Cease, tempest cease, allay thy power 43 Come o'er the stream Charlie - 58 Come, come, bonnie lassie, cried Sandy awa' - 69 Come each gallant lad - 167 Chairs to mend! old chairs to mend! - 192 Come pass round the glass - - 196 Come, come my jolly lads - - 203 Come, folks, come, to my phrenologic lecturing 218 Couldst thou look as dear as when - - 251 Come tell me blue eyed stranger - - 252 Come haste thee, come haste thee - - 256 Come rest on this bosom - - - 267 Come hither thou beautiful rover - - 273 Come hither poor maiden and yield not to woe - 289 Come over the mountains my bonny Swiss boy 290 Come, mariner, down in the deep with me - 291 Come ye disconsolate - - 298 Come to the sunset tree - 298 Day of glory, welcome day! - 38 Draw the sword, Scotland 61 Dear Erin how sweetly thy green bosom rises 94 Dear harp of my country - - 109 Dame Durden had five serving maids - 184 Deserted by the waning moon - 188 Dost thou love wandering - - 188 Dear Tom this brown jug - 196 Dear Doctor be clever and fling off your beaver 221 CONTENTS. IX Drink to me only with thine eyes - - 254 Down in yon village I live so snug - - 262 Deep in a vale a cottage stood - - 276 Devoid of all care was my morning of life - 288 Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells - 293 Dream baby dream - - - 294 Ere around the huge oak that o'ershadows yon mill 302 From birth my native and I've own'd - 40 From Plymouth in the Vulcan we set sail - 132 Friend of my soul this goblet sip - - 198 Funny and free are bachelor's revelries - - 230 Fare thee well and if forever - • - 255 Friend of my soul this goblet sip - - 270 Faintly as tolls the evening chime - 278 Far, far, o'er hill and dell, - - 309 Farewell, farewell to thee Araby's daughter - 311 Good night and joy be wi' you a' - - 62 Go patter to paper sculls, saps d'ye see - 157 Glowing with love on fire for fame - - 179 Gentle Zitella, whither away - - 185 Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown - - 212 Gaily the Troubadour touch'd his guitar - 251 Hark ! the deep'ning voice of war - - * 39 Hail to our Chief who in triumph advances - 45 Hey the bonnie, ho the bonnie - 51 Hail to the chief now he's wet through with whiskey 89 How happy is the sailor's life - - 137 Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling - 140 How stands the glass around - - 165 Hark the muffled drum sounds - - 172 He comes from the wars from the red field of fight 172 How happy's the soldier who lives on his pay - 177 Hark! the goddess Diana - - 186 Here's a health to all good lasses - - 191 Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen - 197 How bright are the joys of the table - - 197 X CONTENTS. Here Bacchus, here's to thee - - 208 How sweet are the flowers that grow - - 261 How dear to this heart are the scenes - 271 In a chariot of light from the regions of day - 25 If a body meet a body comin' through the rye 56 I gae' a waefu' gate yestreen 63 It's the drop of good whiskey - - 102 In summer when the leaves were green - 1 04 I'm a tough true hearted sailor - - 129 It oft-times has been told - - 145 In the good ship Revenge - - - 156 I remember the night was stormy and wet - 160 I see them on their winding way - - 165 It was Dunois the young and brave - - 169 If I had a beau - 176 I love to see the flowing bowl - - 189 Irish smugglers - 232 In this life there is joy in this life there is care 246 It is not for thine eye of blue - - 247 Is there a heart that never lov'd - - 253 I'd be a butterfly - 264 I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd - 267 I remember, I remember - 277 I love the village church - 277 I've gazed upon thy sunny smile - - 285 Indeed my simple tale is true - - 286 In a plain pleasant cottage conveniently neat 287 It is not the tear at this moment shed - - 303 If I had thought thou couldst have died - 306 John Anderson, my Jo, John - 70 Jack and I were both messmates - - 1 33 Jack vat are you arter - 231 Kitty Maggs was a servant to farmer Styles 215 Let us go, lassie, go, 47 Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, 0-53 CONTENTS. XI Let Erin remember the days of old - 114 Let him who sighs in sadness here - - 144 Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder - 146 Love my Mary dwells with thee - - 182 Let the farmer praise his grounds - - 202 Let amorous bards in verse sublime - - 205 Let topers drain the flowing bowl - - 206 Love wandering through the rain - - 259 Let others breathe the melting sigh - 265 Low waved the summer woods, and green 280 Marseilles Hymn - - - - 36 March to the battle field 39 My bonnie lass now turn to me - 54 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale - 57 My thoughts delight to wander - 92 My darling, says Pat to his spouse on his lap 111 Mulroony's my name, I'm a comical boy -. 113 Merry gipsies all are we - - 189 Mr Dip-tallow-chandler and dealer in fat - 209 Major Macpherson ^eav'd a sigh - - 216 My merry gentle people pray - - 226 Mrs Waddle was a widow - 236 Meet me by moonlight alone - - 248 Mid pleasures and palaces 'tho' we may roam 268 Ned Grogan dear joy was the son of his mother 108 Now the rage of battle ended - - 140 Not a drum was heard not a funeral note - 174 Now where so fast, a young man said - - 265 O! say can you see by the dawn's early light 29 Oh! welcome warrior to the soil - - 30 Oh! saw ye the lass with the bonny blue e'en 52 O young Lochinvar is come out of the west - 73 Och! love is the soul of a nate Irishman - 107 Oh! when I breathed a last adieu - - 112 Oh what can compare to the huntsman's - 119 One night 'twas at sea in the midst of a storm 131 Xll CONTENTS. Our country is our ship d'ye see - - 149 One night came on a hurricane - 159 Our bugles sang truce for the night cloud 171 Of all the guests a landlord sees - - 194 Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule 200 Old Flam was a lawyer so grim - - 228 Over port, pipe, or snuffbox - - 233 One morn whilst I was brewing - - 237 Oh listen a while to poor Dickey Scragg - 244 Oh, no! we never mention her - - 247 Oh, yes! I love to mention her - - 249 Oh! think not I am false as air - - 253 Oh! say not woman's love is bought - - 257 Oft in the stilly nigLc 272 Oh! slumber my darling - 280 Oh, swiftly glides the bonny sleigh - 282 Our cot was shelter'd by a wood - - 286 Oh, softly sleep my baby boy - - 294 Pardon now the bold outlaw - - 26 Poor Joe the Marine - - - 128 Poor Savage compared a lost friend to the eye 138 Poor Joe the miller lov'd good ale - - 200 Pale faces stand by - - - 204 Pat fell sick upon a time - 240 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch 48 See Decatur, our hero, returns to the West - 33 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (Lafayette) 33 Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled - 54 Strike up! strike up! Scottish minstrels - 59 Sound Pibroch sound, on each flame-litghed scaur 67 Silent, Oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water 96 Swift from the covert the merry pack fled - 118 Stand to your guns my hearts of oak - 135 Sound the alarm! the foe is come - - 179 See our oars with feather'd spray - 182 Sleep gentle lady - 182 ■ CONTENTS. Xlll Sweet the hour when freed from labor - 183 See yonder cornfield - 184 Said a Fox to a Goose - - - 225 She is far from the land where her young hero 271 Soon as the sun his early ray - - 300 She walks in beauty like the night - - 303 Sweetly on the gyings of morning - 310 The breaking waves dash'd high - - 26 'Twas autumn and round me the leaves were 34 To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled 35 The Hunters of Kentucky - - - 49 The moon was fair, the skies were clear - 46 The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Benlomond 49 There's news from Moidart cam' yestreen - 50 Tell me are ye sleepin' Maggie 55 This love how it plagues me young Ellen - 58 The lovely moon had clim'd the hill - 65 'Twas summer and softly the breezes were blowing 66 'Twas Paddy O'Flannagan set out one morning 97 'Twas at the town of nate Clogheen - 98 There's an isle clasp'd by waves - - 101 This bleak and chilly morning - - 115 The gray eye of morning was dear to my youth 120 The sun from the east tips the mountains - 121 To the chase, to the chase - 122 The bright rosy morning - - 124 The sailor he fears not the roar of the seas - 128 The gallant ship was under weigh - - 135 The ship was now in sight of land - 136 The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore - 137 The wind blew a blast from the northward - 139 Thou art gone from thy lover - - 142 The boatswain pipes all hands on board - 149 The sparkling liquor fills the glass - - 150 The moon on the ocean was dimm'd by a ripple 151 'Twas one morn when the wind from the northward 152 'Twas the girl that Will Watch the bold smuggler 154 XIV CONTENTS. Tom Starboard was a lover true Thy cruise is over now - The moon was beaming silver bright The minstrel boy to the war is gone Though I am now a very little lad The soldier knows that every ball They have donn'd their scarlet garb Thou art come from the spirit's land J Twas you, sir, 'twas you sir - The chough and crow - The glasses sparkle on the board The wealthy fool with gold in store There was a merry widow, and she was very fat The sky with clouds was overcast The lamps are faintly gleaming love To set up a village with tackle for tillage The kiss dear maid thy lips have left To sigh yet feel no pain - Though dimpled cheeks may give the light Thou art mine, rose of love - The shadows of eve 'gan to steal o'er the plain Thine am I my faithful fair - The scene was more beautiful far to my eye This world is all a fleeting show To the mountain's wild echo There is a bloom that never fades The minstrel's returned from the war The banners wav'd on the castle walls That strain proclaims my lover near 'Tis said the joys which childhood knows The night was dark the winds blew loud The sea, the sea, the open sea The day beam is over the sea Tis n crht where strays my muleteer 'Twa- on a cliff whose rocky base The sun sets in night and the stars shun the day They bore him from his barren shore 'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound CONTENTS. XV Unkennel, uncouple the hounds - - 126 Upon the hill he turned to take a last fond look 175 Welcome! welcome! Lafayette - - 31 When wild war'3 deadly blast was blown - 67 Was not Patrick O'Lilt sure a broth of a lad 93 When I was a boy in my father's mud edifice - 95 When a man that's in service is out of employ 105 When morning light is gently breaking - 117 While the hunter o'er the mountain - 118 When Sol from the east had illumin'd - 123 When morn 'twixt mountain and the sky - 125 When first he left his native shore - - 134 When a boy Harry Bluff - - - 143 When the drum beats to arms - - 148 Whether sailor or not for a moment avast 156 Whate'er my fate, where'er I roam - 178 Within this shelter'd mossy dell - - 191 We roam through the forest and over the mountain 191 With my pipe in one hand and my jug in the other 193 W r ine, wine is alone the brisk fountain of mirth 203 William and Jonathan - 225 When 1 was unmarried alone did I roam - 235 Who bang'd my eyes and crack'd my snout - 239 When in death I shall quiet be found - 243 Where are you going my pretty maid - 250 What a luckless wight am I - - 259 Will you come to the bower - - 261 When absent from her whom my soul - 264 When William Tell was doom'd to die - 269 Why, oh why, my heart this sadness - 296 Where as dewy twilight lingers - - 302 Ye sons of freedom wake to glory 36 Ye gentlemen and ladies fair - - 41 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon - 48 Young Jamie lov'd me weel, and ask'd me - 60 Ye banks and braes and streams around - 74 Young Ben he was a nice young man - - 222 XVI CONTENTS. Additional Songs, not inserted in the preceding Table. Come muster my lads your Mechanical tools - 17 Yankee Doodle ... - 19 When Freedom from her mountain height - 21 Ay, pull her tatter'd ensign down - 22 Hallowed the birthday of Liberty's nation - 23 Wake Columbia, wake the lyre 24 THE UNIVERSAL SONGSTER: OR MUSEUM OF MIRTH. NATIONAL SONGS. THE RAISING. Come muster my lads your mechanical tools, Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules; Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line, And plenty of pins of American pine: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, A government firm, and our citizens free. Come up with the plates, lay them firm on the wall, Like the people at large, they're the ground work of all; Examine them well and see that they're sound, Let no rotten parts in our building be found; For our roof we will raise and our song still shall be, Our government firm and our citizens free. Now hand up the girders, lay each in its place, Between them the joists must divide all the space; 18 NATIONAL SONGS. Like assembly-men these should lie level along, Like girders, our senate prove loyal and strong: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, A government firm over citizens free. Your rafters now frame, your king-posts and braces, And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places; Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine, And your pins be all made of American pine; For the roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, A government firm, over citizens free. Our king-posts are judges — now upright they stand, Supporting the braces, the laws of the land; The laws of the land which divide right from wrong, And strengthen the weak, by weakening the strong: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, Laws equal and just for people that's free. Lo! up with the rafters — each frame is a state! How noble they rise! their span too how great! From the north to the south, o'er the whole they ex- tend, And rest on the walls while the walls they defend ! For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, Combined in strength, yet as citizens free. Now enter the purlins and drive your pins through, And see that your joints are drawn home and all true;' The purlins will bind all the rafters together, The strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, United as States, but as citizens free. Come, raise up the turret our glory and pride: In the centre it stands, o'er the whole to preside; The sons of Columbia shall view with delight Its pillars and arches, and towering height: Our roof is now raiseJ ai id our song still shall be A federal head o'er a people still free. NATIONAL SONGS. 19 Huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete, The world shall admire Columbia's fair spot: Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof, And thousands shall come to dwell under our roof, While we drain the deep bowl,our toast still shall be, Our government firm and our citizens free. FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. Tune — 'Yankee Doodle.' Yankee Doodle is the tune Americans delight in; 'Twill do to whistle, sing, or play, And just the thing for fighting. Chorus. — Yankee Doodle, boys, huzza! Down outside, up the middle — Yankee Doodle, fa, sol, la, Trumpet, drum and fiddle. Should Great Britain, Spain, or France, Wage war upon our shore, sir, We'll lead them such a woundy dance, They'll find their toes are sore, sir. Yankee Doodle, &c. Should a haughty foe expect To give our boys a caning, We guess they'll find our lads have larnt A little bit of training, Yankee Doodle, &c. I'll wager now a mug of flip, And bring it on the table, Put Yankee boys aboard a ship, To beat them they are able. Yankee Doodle, &c. Then if they go to argufy, I rather guess they'll find too, 20 NATIONAL SONGS. We've got a set of tonguey blades, To out-talk 'em, if they're a mind to. Yankee Doodle, &c. America's a dandy place, The people all are brothers; And when one's got a pumpkin pie, He shares it with the others. Yankee Doodle, &c. We work and sleep and pray in peace — By industry we thrive, sir; And if a drone won't do his part, We'll scout him from the hive, sir; Yankee Doodle, &c And then on Independence Day (And who's a better right to?) We eat and drink, and sing and play. And have a dance at night too. Yankee Doodle, &c. Our girls are fair our boys are tough, Our old folks wise and healthy; And when we've every thing enough, We count that we are wealthy. Yankee Doodle, &c. We're happy, free, and well to do, And cannot want for knowledge; For almost every mile or two, You find a school or college. Yankee Doodle, &c. The land we till is all our own — Whate'er the price, we paid it; Therefore we'll fight till all is blue, Should any dare invade it. Chorus. — Yankee Doodle, boys; huzza! Down outside, up the middle — Yankee Doodle, fa, sol, la, Trumnet. drum, and fiddle. NATIONAL SONGS. 21 THE AMERICAN FLAG. When Freedom from her mountain height, Unfurl'd her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with the gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white, With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rearest aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumping loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When stride the warriors of the storm And rolls the thunder drums of heaven, Child of the sun, to thee 'tis given, To guard the banner of the free To hover in the sulpher smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbinger of victory. Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph, high. When speaks the signal trumpet-tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, (Ere yet the life blood warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy meteor-glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance 22 NATIONAL SONGS. Catch war and vengeance from the glance! And when the cannon-mouihings loud Heave, in wild wreathes, the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall! There shall thy victor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas, on ocean's wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, When death careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frightened waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, The dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly, In triumph, o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's only home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe, but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? ■ OLD IRONSIDES.' Ay! pull her tattered ensign down, Long has it wav'd on high, And many a heart has danc'd to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar — NATIONAL SONGS. 23 The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquish'd foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood h And waves were white below, No more shall feel the conqueror's tread, Or know the conquered knee ; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea ! Oh better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep And there should be her grave, Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms — The lightning and the gale! COLUMBIA'S GREAT GLORY. Hallow 'd the birth-day of liberty's nation, Sacred the flame on her altar that burns, A tear to the chieftain who wrought her salvation, And flowers to the grave that his body inu'ips; He who from darkest night, Led us to glory's light, Remaining before us our guidance and star Rid every troubled sea, Pilot of liberty; Champion of peace in the ravage of war. Hail to the name of Columbia's great hero, Which brighter shines forth thro' the vista of years Whilst on history's page stands the contrast of Nero, The king of oppression, and fother of tears. 24 NATIONAL SONGS. Then raise the sacred strain, Let echo mock again; Washington rise on each patriot's voice, Till all Columbia round, Swell with the joyous sound, And hill and vale in the anthem rejoice. COLUMBIAN INDEPENDENCE. Wake, Columbia! wake the lyre, Touch the silver chords with fire; Bid the holy flames arise, Mounting swiftly to the skies; Music sweet, and music strong. Rouse the soul with lyric song. Goddess of this western clime, Tune thy notes to joys sublime! Rapt in glory's brightest blaze, Gallant heroes proudly raise Shouts of triumph, sounding far, Louder than the storm of war: Godlike courage won the day — Baffled Britain lost her sway; Ghastly stood her trembling king — Quick he felt the dreadful sting, When Columbia's sons had sworn, 'Death! — or, lo! a nation's born!' Born a nation stood sublime, Virtue's proof— the test of time, England's vassals now return, Help their weeping nation mourn! Tyranny had fled our coast; Gain'd one world a world was lost. NATIONAL SONGS. 25 LIBERTY TREE.— % T. Paine. In a chariot of light from the regions of day, The goddess of Liberty came ; Ten thousand celestials directed the way, And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love. And the plant she nam'd Liberty Tree. The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground, Like a native it flourish'd and bore; The fame of its fruit drew the nations around, To seek out its peaceable shore. Unmindful of names, or distinctions, they came, For freemen like brothers agree; With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued, And their temple was Liberty Tree. Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old, Their bread in contentment they ate, Unvex'd with the troubles of silver and gold, The cares of the grand and the great; With timber and tar they old England supplied, And supported her power on the sea; Her battles they fought without getting a groat, For the honor of Liberty Tree. But hear, O ye swains, ('tis a tale most profane) How all the tyrannical powers, Kings, Commons, and Lords are uniting amain, To cut down this guardian of ours: From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms Thro' the land let the sound of it flee; Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer, In defence of our Liberty Tree. • 2 26 NATIONAL SONGS. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Thb breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods against the stormy sky, Their giant branches tost; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true hearted came: — Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; — Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear: — They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared: — This was their welcome home. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? — the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine. Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship Go©! NATIONAL pONGS. 27 NEW ORLEANS, OR THE SONS OF THE WEST. Air — " John Bull caught a Tartar." Brave sons of the West, your deeds of renown Unfold a new scene for the world to admire; Your valor unrivall'd, all Europe will crown, As a subject for praise and a theme for the lyre; You've ennobled the waters on which you were born, Mississippi emerges resplendent in story — M ; d the scenes that with triumph our country adorn, New-Orleans arises unequal in glory. Brave sons of the West, the blood in your veins, At danger's approach, waited not for persuaders; You rush'd from your mountains, your hills and your plains, And follow'd your streams to repel the invaders. You came, you encounter'd, you conquer'd the host That Britain had dared to debark on your shores; New-Orleans for ever your valor will boast, And Mississippi murmur your praise as it pours. Proud leaders of Britain, your fortune behold! Embark'd in " a secret and grand expedition," You sail'd to gain triumph, and eke to get gold; You landed — march'd forward — and met your per- dition. The plain of New-Orleans, ensanguined and red With Britain's best blood, affords illustration; How many fine columns to conquest were led! How few have return'd from the " grand demonstra- tion." At a point so remote, you hoped to surprise, And find a rich city devoid of protection; You knew not what faithful and vigilant eyes Were watching your movements in every direction: With the eye of an eagle when guarding his nest, Monroe saw their fav'rite New-Orleans in danger, 28 NATIONAL SONGS. And sent to breve Jackson the sons of the West, To welcome and bury the bones of the stranger. Brave sons of the West, all Europe will praise The promptness with which you perform 'd your com- misssion; The world will admit that your conduct displays A zeal to move on with a " great expedition:" E'en Wellington's duke, who in France and in Spain, Oft sacrificed legions of Buonaparte's martyrs, Will swear, when he hears that his generals are slain, Our Western backwoodsmen are certainly Tartars. THE AMERICAN STAR. Tune — "Humors of Glen." Come strike the bold anthem, the war-dogs are howl- ing. Already they eagerly snuff up their prey; The red cloud of war o'er our forests is scowling, Soft peace spreads her wings, and fliej weeping away; The infants affrighted, cling close to their mothers, The youths grasp their swords, for the combat pre- pare; While beauty weeps fathers and lovers and brothers, Who rush to display the American Star. Come blow the shrill bugle — the loud drum awaken — The dread rifle seize — let the cannon deep roar; No heart with pale fear, or faint doubtings be shaken, No slave's hostile foot leave a print on our shore; Shall mothers, wives, daughters, and sisters left weep- ing, Insulted by ruffians, be dragg'd to despair? Oh no — from the hills the proud eagle comes sweeping, And waves to the brave the American Star. The spirits of Washington, Warren, Montgomery, Look down from the clouds with bright aspect serene; NATIONAL SONGS. 29 Come soldiers, a tear and a toast to their memory, Rejoicing they'll see us, as they once have been; To us the high boon by the gods has been granted, To spread the^ glad tidings of liberty far, Let millions invade us, we'll meet them undaunted, And conquer or die by the American Star. Your hands then, dear comrades, round liberty's altar, United, we swear by the souls of the brave! Not one, from the strong resolution shall falter, To live independent or sink in the grave. Then freemen fill up — Lo! the striped banner's flying, The high birds of liberty scream through the air, Beneath her oppression and tyranny dying — Success to the beaming American Star. STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the peril- ous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallanty streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O! say does that Star-spangled Banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- poses, What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream: 30 NATIONAL SONGS. 'Tis the Star-spangled Banner — O! long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country, should leave us no more! Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pol- lution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave, And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph doth wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand, Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation, Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescu'd land, Praise the Power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto — " In God is our trust;" And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. WELCOME LA FAYETTE. Composed at Nashville, and sung by the Young La- dies of the Nashville Female Academy, on the recep- tion of General'La Fayette at that Institution, May 5th, 1825. Oh! welcome, warrior, to the' soil That gave the brave a bed, Whose harvest yields the ample spoil Of blood for freedom shed; Welcome, welcome, to the shore, Thy youthful footsteps fondly press'd, Where free-born millions proudly join, To hail the nation's guest— NATIONAL SONGS. 31 Huzza! huzza! huzza! huzza! To hail the nation's guest. Ye beauteous maids, your garlands fling Around the hero's brow; Ye hoary veterans, hither bring The heart's full tribute now; Let kings their diadems cast down, And nobles shrink to nothing — yet True glory, honor, gem the name Of gallant La Fayette — • Huzza! huzza! huzza! huzza! For gallant La Fayette! Oh! welcome, father — name alone Dearer than titles — we, Thy children, give thy homage known, And freemen greet thee free; True patriot, shield thy hoary head * Beneath the oak thou help'dst to rear; Welcome, deliverer, champion, friend, La Fayette's welcome here — Huzza! huzza! huzza! huzza! La Fayette's welcome here. LA FAYETTE'S WELCOME TO MARYLAND. Sung at the dinner given to Gen. La Fayette by the Legislature of Maryland, Dec. 24th, 1824.— By W. P. Farquhar. Tune — " Scots wa hae." Welcome, welcome, La Fayette, Thee we never shall forget; Friend of man, we love thee yet, Friend of Liberty. Thou wast once our friend indeed, Wast our friend in time of need — NATIONAL SONGS. Thou for us didst freely bleed, Son of Liberty. And we love to see thee here, Thou art now, as ever, dear; Thee we ever shall revere— Friend of Liberty. Yes, we take thee by the hand, Welcome thee to Maryland — By thee she will ever stand, Firm and true to thee. Thou hast been the honest man, Acting on a worthy plan; Since old time its course began — Who has done like thee? And the toils of war now o'er, Welcome to Columbia's shore; Yes, we love thee more and more — Friend of Liberty. Freedom's cause is cause divine: Freedom's cause was ever thine: On the world soon may it shine, The sun of Liberty. Welcome, welcome, La Fayette, Thou art good and thou art great, Welcome, welcome, to our state — Happy may'st thou be. Sons and daughters long shall tell, None did ever thee excel; Mothers, fathers, lov'd thee well — Friend of Liberty. NATIONAL SONGS. 33 SONG, Written by J. McCreery, and sung by a gentleman of Petersburg at a public dinner. Tune — " Anacreon in Heaven." See Decatur, our hero, returns to the west, Who's destined to shine in the annals of story; A bright ray of vict'ry beams high on his crest, Encircled his brows by a halo of glory. On Afric's bleak shore, From the insolent Moor, His bloody stained laurels in triumph he tore, Where the crescent, which oft spread its terrors afar, Submissively bowed to Columbia'3 star. Algiers' haughty Dey, in the height of his pride, From American freemen a tribute demanded; Columbia's brave freemen the tribute denied, And his corsairs to seize our bold tars were com- manded. Their streamers wave high, But Decatur draws nigh, His name strikes like lightning — in terror they fly; Thrice welcome our hero, returned from afar, Where the proud crescent falls to Columbia's star, LA FAYETTE. Tune — " Auld Lang Syne." Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? The friend that's true remember'd not, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, We never can forget, When dangers press'd and foes drew nfctfr Our friend was La Fayette. 2* 34 NATIONAL SONGS, When first our fathers bravely drew 'Gainst tyrants and their laws, On wings of generous zeal he flew, To aid the holy cause. For auld laug syne, my dear, &c. He stem'd the broad Atlantic wave, He vow'd they should be free, He led the bravest of the brave, To death or victory. For auld lang syne, my dear, &c. Let Brandy wine his glory tell, And Monmouth loud acclaim; Let York in triumph proudly swell The measure of his fame. For auld lang syne, my dear, &c. Shall sons of freedom e'er forget, Till time shall cease to move, The debt they owe to La Fayette, Of gratitude and love? For auld lang syne, my dear, &c. THE BANKS OF CHAMPLAIN. TwA9 autumn, and round me the leaves were descend- ing, And lonely the woodpecker peck'd on the tree, Whilst thousands their freedom and rights were de- fending The din of their arms sounded dismal to me; For Sandy, my love, was engag'd in the action, Without him I valued the world not a fraction; His death would have ended my life in distraction, As lonely I stray'd on the banks of Champlain. Then turning to list to the cannon's loud thunder, My elboW I lean'd on a rock near the shore; NATIONAL SONGS. 35 The sounds nearly parted my heart-strings assunde* I thought I should see my dear shepherd no morr But soon an express all my sorrow suspended, My thanks to the Father of mercies ascended, My shepherd was safe, and my country defended, By freedom's brave sons on the banks of Champlain I wip'd from my eye the big tear that had started, And hasten'd the news to my parents to bear, Who sigh'd for the loss of relations departed, And wept at the tidings that banish'd their care. The cannons now ceased, the drums still were beating, The foes of our country far north were retreating, The neighb'ring damsels each other were greeting, With songs of delight on the banks of Champlain. Our squadron triumphant, our army victorious, With laurels unfaded, our Spartans return *d; My eyes never dwelt on a scene half so glorious, My heart with such rapture before never burn'd. But Sandy, my darling, that moment appearing, His presence to every countenance cheering, Was render'd to me more doubly endearing, By feats he perform'd on the banks of Champlain. But should smiling peace, with her blessings and treas- ures, Soon visit the plains of Columbia again, What pen can describe the enrapturing pleasures, That I shall experience through life with my swain? For then no wild savage will come to alarm us, Nor worse British foes send their minions to harm us. But nature and art will continue to charm us, While happy we live on the banks of Champlain. ODE— For the Fourth of July, 1827." To the sages who spoke — to the heroes who bled — To the day, and the deed — strike the harpstrings of glory, 36 NATIONAL SONGS. Let the song of the ransom'd remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story. O'er the bones of the bold, Be that story long told, And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs enrolPd, Who on freedom's green hills, freedom's banner un- furl 'd, AjkI the beacon-fire rais'd that gave light to the world. "3\vas for us and our children, to conquer or die, Undaunted they stood, where the war-storm burst o'er them; l£ach blade drew a thunderbolt down from the sky, Till the foeman turn'd pale, and was wither'd before them. Then from Liberty's band, Went a shout thro' the land, As the rainbow of peace their fair heritage spann'd; Where the banner of freedom in pride was unfurl'd, And the beacon-fire rose that gave light to the world. They are gone — mighty men! and they sleep in their fame ; Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never! — Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name, And the anthem send down — " Independence for ever." Wake, wake, heart and tongue! Keep the theme ever young— Let their deeds thro' the long line of ages be sung, When on freedom's green hills freedom's banner un- furl'd, And the beacon-fire rais'd that gave light to the world. MARSEILLES HYMiN OF LIBERTY. Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory, Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise! NATIONAL SONGS. 37 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries. Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms! to arms' ye brave! Th' avenging sword unsheath; March on, march on, all hearts resolv'd, On victory or death. Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling, Which treacherous kings confederate raise, The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, And lo! our fields and cities blaze. And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands embruing. To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c. With luxury and pride surrounded, The vile insatiate despots dare, Their thirst of power and gold unbounded, To mete and vend the light and air. Like beasts of burden would they load us, Like gods would bid their slaves adore, But man is man, and who is more? Then shall they longer lash and goad us? To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c. Oh, Liberty, can man resign thee, Once having felt thy generous flame? Can dungeons, bolts arid bars confine thee Or whips thy noble spirit tame? Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield, But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c. 38 NATIONAL SONGS. DAY OF GLORY. Air — " Seots wha hae." Day of glory, welcome day! Freedom's banners greet thy ray, See, how cheerfully they play, With the morning breeze. On the rocks where pilgrims kneePd, On the heights where squadrons wheel'd When a tyrant's thunder peal'd O'er the trembling sea. God of armies! did * thy stars In their courses' smite his cars, Blast his arm, and wrest his bars From the heaving tide? On our standard, lo! they bum, And, when days like this return, Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn, Who for freedom died. God of peace! whose spirit fills All the echoes of our hills, All the murmurs of our rills, Now the storm is o'er; O, let freemen be our sons; And let future Washingtons Rise, to lead their valiant ones, Till there's war no more. By the patriot's hallowed rest, By the warrior's gory breast, Never let our graves be press'd By a despot's throne: By the pilgrim's toils and cares, By their battles and their prayers, By their ashes, — let our heirs Bow to thee alone. NATIONAL SONGS. 39 MARCH TO THE BATTLE FIELD. Air — " Oft in the stilly night. March to the battle field, The foe is now before us; Each heart is freedom's shield, » And heav'n is smiling o'er us, The woes and pains, The galling chains, That keep our spirits under, In proud disdain, We've brok'n again, And tore each link assunder. March to the, &c. Who,, for his country brave, Would fly from her invader? Who, his base life to save, Would, traitor-like, degrade her? Our hallowed cause, Our home and laws, 'Gainst tyrant power sustaining, We'll gain a crown Of bright renown, Or die — our rights maintaining! March to the, &c. BATTLE SONG. Tune — " Bruce' s Address." Hark! the deep'ning voice of war, Hoarsely echoes from afar, Forward! and your weapons draw, Sons of Liberty! Let your banners wave in air Let your light 'nings fiercely glare! 40 NATIONAL SONGS. Freely ev'ry danger share For your Liberty! Freedom! glorious, fair and bright! 'Tis for her you dare the fight ; Guard her with a giant might! Sons of Liberty! Never let the word be said, That in time of battle dread, Columbia's sons from danger fled, No! it shall not be! Where the death-storm thickest rains! Where the earth shows reddest stains! There the Eagle still remains! Never turns to flee! See the foes now yield the ground! Their bravest lie in death around; — Let the trumpet's joyful sound, Shout for victory! WE NEVER WILL BE SLAVES. Air — " The gallant Troubadour/' From birth my native land I've owned As liberty's blest shore; In every heart she sits enthroned, And stands at every door. Then shall we loseour chartered right Through base and sordid knaves? No, while we've hearts and hands to fight, We never will be slaves. Columbia's sons, with freedom born, Ne'er heed a foreign foe; Our fertile fields are gilt with corn, And shall we lose them! — No! NATIONAL SONGS. 41 We love the soil, and will protect Or make that soil our graves, Nor e'er this sacred truth neglect — We never will be slaves. Then, let us raise our bumpers high With foaming liquor bright, And ev'ry effort still defy 'Gainst God, our land and right! Join hand and heart with one accord, And waft it o'er the waves; By land and sea be this the word — We never will be slaves. THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY, As sung by Mr. Ludlow, in the New-Orleans and Wes- tern Country Theatres. Ye gentlemen and ladies fair, Who grace this famous city, Just listen, if you've time to spare, While I rehearse a ditty; And for an opportunity, Conceive yourselves quite lucky, For 'tis not often here you see A hunter from Kentucky. Oh, Kentucky! the hunters of Kentucky. The hunters of Kentucky, We are a hardy free-born race, Each man to fear a stranger; Whate'er the game, we join in chase Despising toil and danger; And if a daring foe annoys, Whate'er his strength and forces, We'll show him that Kentucky boys Are " alligator horses." Oh, Kentucky, &c. 42 NATIONAL SONGS. I s'pose you've read it in the prints, How Packenham attempted To make old Hickory Jackson wince, But soon his schemes repented; For we with rifles ready cock'd, Thought such occasion lucky, And soon around the general flock 'd The hunters of Kentucky. Oh, Kentucky, &c. You've heard, I s'pose, how New Orleans Is fam'd for wealth and beauty — There's girls of every hue it seems, From snowy white to sooty. So Packenham he made his brags, If he in fight was lucky, He'd have the girls and cotton bags, In spite of old Kentucky, v Oh, Kentucky, &c. But Jackson he was wide awake, And was'nt scar'd at trifles, For well he knew what aim we take With our Kentucky rifles; So he led us down to Cypress swamp, The ground was low and mucky, There stood John Bull in martial pomp, And here was old Kentucky. Oh, Kentucky, &c. A bank was raised to hide our breast, Not that we thought of dying, But that we always like to rest, Unless the game is flying: Behind it stood our little force — None wish'd it to be greater, For every man was half a horse, And half an alligator. Oh, Kentucky, &c. NATIONAL SONGS. 43 They did not let our patience tire, Before they show'd their faces — We did not choose to waste our fire, So snugly kept our places; But when so near to see them wink, We thought it time to stop 'em; And 'twould have done you good I think To see Kentuckians drop 'em. Oh, Kentucky, &c. Thev found at last 'twas vain to fight Where lead was all their booty; 'And so they wisely took to flight, And left us all our beauty. And now if danger e'er annoys, Remember what our traders; Just send for us Kentucky boys, And we'll protect you, ladies. Oh, Kentncky, &c. THE PATRIOT'S FRIEND. Cease, tempest, cease! allay thy power Nor bid the clouds of darkness lour, Or let the vivid 1 ghtning play, To cheer a pilgrim on his way; For thus o'er barren plains I've sped, To seek the mansions of the dead, And kiss the clay where he may be, Who sought his grave through liberty. Cease, wind, to blow, 'twixt earth and heaven! Unless your moans for him are given, Then I unison will sigh Until the night has lingered by! Still I'll proceed, unawed by fear, And warm thy blast with friendship's tear; 44 NATIONAL SONGS For I must know the hero's doom, To breathe my blessings o'er his tomb. Cease, hail and rain, to drench my vest! Or slumbering Sorrow sooth to rest, While I pace many a darkened field, To seek, though dead, his country's shield. For, though no more he lives to fight, But only lives in memory's night, I at his tomb my vow will seal, And o'er his honored marble kneel. Cease, Pleasure, cease! and think of him Who ne'er could Freedom's laurel dim! Nor shall this pause for him be vain, For he expir'd our rights to gain! And, though he lies in yon cold earth, There Freedom's fire shall take new birth, To seek the clay where he may be, Who sought his grave through liberty. WASHINGTON. Oh ne'er to man did bounteous heaven impart A purer spirit or more generous heart; — And in that heart did nature sweetly blend The patriot hero, and the faithful friend. SCOTCH SONGS. HAIL TO THE CHIEF. WORDS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Hail to the chief who in triumph advances! Honor'd and bless'd be the evergreen Pine! Long may the Tree in his banner that glances, Flourish the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back again, *Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him, the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, ' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' Proudly our Pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin, And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in rum, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, 46 SCOTCH SONGS. Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with wo; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear agen, * Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' Row, Vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine! Olthat the rose-bud that graces yon islands, Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seeding-gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honor'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, ' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! THE ROSE OF ALLANDALE. The morn was fair, the skies were clear, No breath came o'er the sea, When Mary left her Highland cot, And wander'd forth with me; Though flowers deck'd the mountain's side And fragrance fill'd the vale, By far the sweetest flower there Was the Rose of Allandale. Where'er I wander'd, east or ,west, Though fate began to lour, A solace still was she to me In sorrow's lonely hour: When tempests lash'd our gallant bark And rent her shiv'ring sail, One maiden form withstood the storm — 'Twas the Rose of Allandale. And when my fever'd lips were parch'd, On Afric's burning sand, SCOTCH SONGS. 47 She whisper'd hopes of happiness And tales of distant land: My life had been a wilderness, Unblest by fortune's gale, Had not fate link'd my lot to hers — The Rose of Ailandale. THE BRAES OF BALQUITHER. Let us go, lassie, go To the Braes of Balquither, Where the blue-berries grow 'Mong bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes of Balquither. I will twine thee a bow'r, By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain, I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bow'r o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheeling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer is in prime Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, 48 SCOTCH SONGS. And the wild mountain thyme, A' the moorland perfuming! To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes of Balquither. BONNIE DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care? Thou '11 break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wanton'st through the flow'ry thorn; Thou mind'st me of departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft have I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine; Wi' lightsome heart, I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree, And my fause lover staw my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi* me. ROY'S WIFE. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch; Wat ye how she cheated me, As I came o'er the braes of Balloch. She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine, She said that she lov'd me best of ony; SCOTCH SONGS. 49 But oh the fickle, faithless quean, She's ta'en the carl and left her Johnny. I Roy's wife, Sac, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, . Roy's wife of Aldivalloch; Wat ye how she cheated me, As I came o'er the braes of Balloch. O she was a canty quean, And weel could dance the Highland walloch, How happy I, had she been mine, Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch. % Roy's wife, &c. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, , Roy's wife of Aldivalloch; Wat ye how she cheated me, As I came o'er the braes of Balloch. Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear, Her wee bit mou', sae sweet and bonny, To me she ever will be dear, Tho' she's forever left her Johnny. Roy's wife, &c. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch; Wat ye how she cheated me, As I came o'er the braes of Balloch. But Roy's age is three times mine, I think his days will nae be mony, And when the carl's dead and gane, She'll, may be, rue and tak' her Johnny. Roy's wife, &c. JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 3 50 SCOTCH SONGS. While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloaming, To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How .sweet is the brier wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green, Yet sweeter an' fairer an' dear to my bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane, Is lovely young Jessie, is lovely young Jessie, Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, an' blyth as she's bonny, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain, An' far be the villain divested o' feeling, Wha'd blight in its blossom the sweet flow'r o' Dum- blane. Sing on, thou sweet Mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes o' Calderwood glen, Sae dear to this bossom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. flow lost were my days, till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain, X ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dum- blane, Tho' mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, An' reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o/ Dumblane. THE LANDING OF ROYAL CHARLIE. There's news from Moidart cam' yestreen, Will soon gar mony farlie, For ships of war hae just come in, And landed Royal Charlie; Corne thro' the heather, Around him gither, SCOTCH SONGS. 51 Ye're a' the welcomer early; Come round him cling, Wi' a' yer kin, For wha'll be king but Charlie? Come thro' the heather, Around him gither, Come Ronald, come Donald, Come a' the gither, An' crown your rightful lawful king, For wha'll be king but Charlie? The highland clans wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groats to Airly, Hae to a man declar'd to stand Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie? Come thro' the heather, &c. There's ne'er a lass in a' the land, But vows baith late an' early, To man she 'ell ne'er gie heart or hand, Wha wadna fight for Charlie, Come thro' the heather, &c. The lowland a' baith great and sma', Wi' mony a lord an' laird hae, Declar'd for Scotia's king an' law, An' speir ye wha but Charlie. Come thro' the heather,' &c. Then here's a health to Charlie's cause. An' be't complete an' early, His very name our hearts' blood warms, To arm for Royal Charlie. Come thro' the heather, &c. HEY THE BONNY BREAST KNOTS. Hey the bonnie, ho the bonnie, Hey the bonnie breast knots; • 52 SCOTCH SONGS. Blithe and bonnie were they ail When they put on the breast knots. There was a bridal in our town, For ilka lass there was a loon, Some wore black and some wore brown, But ilk ane had a breast knot. Hey the bonme, &c. A sonsie lass wi' raven hair, Cam' wi' a knot like lily fair; Gart mony hearts that hour feel sair, For ilk ane lo'e'd her breast knot. The bride a knot kept tae hersel! Its color she alone could tell, Wha had the like wad bear the bell, And ha' a Jo, and a breast knot. Hey the bonnie, &c. It was nae black, it was nae blue, It had nae sic unseemly hue; But it was white, I tell you. true, A braw bonnie breast knot. Ane had the knot that like to me, Inspired all hearts with mirth and glae; Farewell! kind friends and thanks to ye, That loe sae weel my breast knots. Hey the bonnie, ho the bonnie, Hey the bonnie breast knots, Blithe andrbonnie were they all When they put on the breast knots. OH! SAW YE THE LASS. O saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een? Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen, i T er cheek like the rose is, but fresher I ween; She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is below in the valley, Where wild flowers welcome the wandering bee; > SCOTCH SONGS. 53 But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen, Is the maid that I love wi' the bonnie blue een. O saw ye the lass, &c. When night overshadows her cot in the glen, She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonnie blue een. As the dove that has wandered away from his nest, Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I'll rly from the world's false and vanishing scene, To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonnie blue een. O saw ye the lass, &c. LET US HASTE TO KELVIN GROVE. Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O, Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O, Where the rose in all its pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, To the cove, beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O, Where the glens rebound the call Of the lofty water-fall, Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O. Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, Where so oft beneatli its shade, bonnie lassie, O, With the songsters in the grove, We have told our tale of love, And have sportive garlands wove, bonnie lassie, 0, But I soon must bid adieu, bonnie lassie, O, To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O, To the streamlet winding clear, To the fragrant scented briar, Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O. 54 SCOTCH SONGS And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, 0, Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, 0, Wilt thou, Ellen, when you hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his mem'ry shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O, MY BONNIE LASS. Tune—" Wha.ni be king but Charlie." My bonnie lass, now turn to me, And gie a smile to cheer me, An honest heart I'll gie to thee. For in truth I love thee dearly. Come, o'er the heather we'll trip together, All in the morning early, With heart and hand, I'll by thee stand, For in truth I love thee dearly. Come, o'er the heather we'll trip together, I heed neither mother nor father nor brother, With heart and hand, I'll by thee stand, For in truth I love thee dearly. There's many a lass I love full well, And many who love me dearly, But there's ne'er a one, except thyseP, That I e'er could love sincerely. Come o'er the heather, &c. BRUCE'S ADDRESS. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled? Scots, whom Bruce has aften led! Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour! See the front of battle low'r! See approach proud Edward's pow'r! Edward! chains and slavery! SCOTCH SONGS. 55 Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee. Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw? Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian! on wi' me. By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be, shall be free. Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Forward! let us do or die! TELL ME, ARE YE SLEEPIN' MAGGIE? Tune—" Roy's wife." Tell me, are ye sleepin', Maggie? Tell me, are ye sleepin', Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie! Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carie, Lightnings gleam athwart the lift: And winds drive on wi' winter's fury. Tell me, &c. Fearfu' soughs the boor-tree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and drearie, Loud the iron yett does clank, And cry o' howlets make me eerie. Tell me, &c. 56 m SCOTCH SONGS. Aboon my breath I dauma speak, For fear I rise your w auk rife daddy; Cauld's the blast upon my cheek; O rise, rise my bonny lady. Tell me, &c. She op't the door, she let him, He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie; ' Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since Maggie, now I'm in aside ye. COMIN ' THRO' THE RYE. If a body meet a body comin' through the rye: If a body kiss a body, need a body cry? Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Nane, they say, ha'e I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me. When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo ; e myseP; But where 's his hame, or what's his name, I dinna care to tell. If a- body meet a body comin' frae the town, If a body greet a body, need a body frown? Ev'ry lassie has her laddie , Nane, they say, ha'e I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'; But where's his hame, or what's his name, I dinna care to tell. ROB ROY MACGREGOR. Tune — " Dunean Gray." Pardon now the bold outlaw, Rob Roy Macgregor, 0! SCOTCH SONGS. 57 Grant him mercy, gentles a', Rob Roy Macgregor, O, Let your hands and hearts agree, Set the Highland laddie free, Make us sing wi' muckle glee, Rob Roy Macgregor, ! Long the state has doom'd his fa', Rob Roy Macgregor, O! Still he spurned the hatefu' law, Rob Roy Macgregor, O! . Scots can for their country die; Ne'er for Britain's foes they flee, A' that's past forget — forgi'e, Rob Roy Macgregor, 0! Scotland's fear and Scotland's pride, Rob Roy Macgregor, O! Your award must now abide, Rob Roy Macgregor, O! Lang your favors hae been mine, Favors I will ne'er resign, Welcome then for auld lang syne, Rob Roy Macgregor, O! BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. March, march, Ettrick and Tdviotdale, Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are over the border. Many a banner spread, flutters above your head: Many a crest that is famous in story, Mount and make ready then, sons of the mountain glen, Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish glory. 3* 58 SCOTCH SONGS. Come from the hills where our hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon ia blazing; Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, war- steeds are bounding; Stand to your arms, and march in good order; England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray, When the blue bonnets came over the border. COME O'ER THE STREAM CHARLIE. Come o'er the stream Charlie, dear Charlie, brave Charlie, Come o'er the stream Charlie, and dine wi' M'lean; And though you be weary, we'll make your heart cheery, And welcome our Charlie and his royal train. We'll bring down the track-deer, we'll bring down the black steer, The lamb from the break, an' the doe from the glen, The salt sea we'll harry, and bring to our Charlie The cream from the boothy and curd from the pen, And you shall drink freely the dews of Glen-cheerly, That stream in the star-light when kings do not ken; And deep shall your meed be of wine that is rue 1 . To drink to your sire, and his friend the M'lear. If aught will invite you, or more will delight you, 'Tis ready, — a troop of our bold highland men Shall range o'er the heather, with bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores, three hundred and ten. THIS LOVE— HOW IT PLAGUES ME. This love how it plagues me, young Elier* did say, As she sat at her wheel on a fine summer's day; SCOTCH SONGS. 59 Before I saw Sandy I rose with the lark, And as merrily sang frae the morning till dark; But now when I'm singing, he comes in my mind, Tho' he's neither before me, nor yet is behind: love do you plague ilka body like me. For Sandy ne'er promised a lover to be? Wi' me at the gloaming we've wander'd alane, And at kirk, and at market, wi' me he has gane; He speaks not of love but he's blithe when we meet; Nor allows me to pass unobserv'd in the street. Be still then my heart, let my wheel go its round, For mother will wonder what's come o' thy sound; 1 needna be jealous, for why should I be, Since Sandy ne'er promised his true love to me. While Ellen was musing the door it flew wide: In a moment young Sandy was down by her side; I'm come my dear Ellen, you maun a say nay, To ask you to wed me, and Tuesday's the day; Your mother's consented, O now my love speak, — Yet she said not a word, and pale grew her cheek; At length with a smile, and the tear in her e'e, f'\e clung to his bosom and said c it will be.' THE BANNER OF BLUE. Strike up! strike up! strike up! Scottish minstrels so gay, Tell of V allace, that brave warlike man; Sing also of Bruce — your banners display, While each chief leads on his bold clan. Here's success, Caledonia to thee; To the sons of the thistle so true, Then march! gaily march! so cantie and free, There's none like the banners so blue. 60 SCOTCH SONGS Marcn on. march on! march on! to the brazen trum- pet's sound, How quickly in battle, in battle array; Each brave Highland chief assembles his men, And they march to the bagpipes so gay. Here's success, Caledonia, to thee, To the sons of the thistle so true; Then march! gaity march! so cantie and free, There's none like the banners so blue. AULD ROBIN GRAY. Young Jamie lov'd me wee], and ask'd me for his bride, But saving a crown, he had naithing else beside; To make a crown a pound, my Jamie went to sea, And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He had nae been gane but a year and a day, When my faither brake his arm and our cow was stole away; My mither she fell sick, and Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray came a courting to me. My faither cou'd na wark, and my mitiier cou'd na spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou'd na win, Auld Robin fed 'em baith, and wi' tears in his ee, Said Jeanny for their sakes oh marry me; My heart it fast hae, and I look'd for Jamie back, But the wind it blew hard, and his ship was a wrack, His ship was a wrack, why did na Jeanny dee, And why was she spar'd to cry wae's me My faither urg'd me fair, and my mither did na speak, But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break, They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was at sea, And Auld Robin Gray is gude-man to me; I had na been a wife but weeks only four, When sitting sae mournfully out my ain door, SCOTCH SONGS. 61 I saw my Jamie s wraith, for I cou'd na think it he, 'Till he said I'm come hame, love, to marry thee. Sair, sair did we gre.et, and mickle did we say, We took but ane kiss, and we tore ourselves away, I wish I was dead, but I'm na like to dee, why was I born to say wae's me; 1 gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin, I dare na think of Jamie for that wou'd be a sin, Sol will do my best a gude wife to be, For Auld Robin Gray is very kind to me. A HIGHLAND LAD. A highland lad my love was born, The lowland laws he held in scorn, But he still was faithful to his clan. My gallant braw John Highland man, Sing hey my bravv John Highland man, Sing ho my braw John Highland man, There's not a lad in a' the clan, Can match we my braw Highland man. With his bonnet blue and tartan plaid, And good claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highland man, Sing hey my braw John Highland man, Sing ho my braw John Highland man, There's not a lad in a' the clan, Can match we my braw Highland man. DRAW THE SWORD, SCOTLAND. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland! Over mountain and moor hath passed the war-sign: The p : hroch is pealing, pealing, peahng, Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine. 62 SCOTCH SONGS. • The cians they are gathering, gath'ring, gath'ring, The claLS they are gath'ring hy loch and by lea; The banners they are flying, flying, flying, The banners they are flying th:>.t lead to victory. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland! Charge as ye've charged jn the days o' lang syne; Sound to the onset, the onset, the or>.set, • He who but falters is nae son o' thine. Sheathe the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland! Sheathe the sword, Scotland, for dimmed is its shine; The foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing, And wha ken nae mercy is nae son o' thine! The struggle is over, over, over, The struggle is over! — the victory won! — There are tears for the fallen, the fallen, the fallen, And glory for all who their duty have done! Sheathe the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland! With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine; Time shall ne'er part them, part them, pait them, But -hand down the garland to each son o' thine, GOOD NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WF YOU A' Good night, and joy be wi' you a'; Your harmless mirth has cheer 'd my heart; May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw ; In sorrow may ye never part! My spirit lives, but strength is gone; The mountain fires now blaze in vain: Remember, sons, the deeds I've done, And in your deeds I'il live again! When on your muir our gallant clan Frae boasting foes their banners tore, Wha show'd himself a better man, Or fiercer wav'd the red claymore? But when in peace — then mark me there — When through the glen the wand'rer came, SCOTCH SONGS. 63 I gave him of our lordly fare, I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear; Be cantie, but be good and lev.l; Your ain ills ay hae heart to bear, Anither's ay hae heart to leel. So ere I set, I'll see you shine,' I'll see you triumph ere I fa'; My parting breath shall boast you mine — Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'. I GAED A WAEFIT GATE YESTREEN, I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; I gat ray death irae twa sweet een, '.i\va lovely een o' bonnie blue. Twas not her golden ringlets bright, Her lips like roses wat w>' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily white, It was her een sae bonnie blue. She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, She charmed my soul, I wistna how; And aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam irae her een sae bonnie blue. But sp re to speak, and spare to speed, She'll aibiins listen to my vow; Should she refuse I'll lay my dead To her twa ecu sac bonnie blue. LOCH-NA-GARR. Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, In you let the minions of luxury rove; 64 SCOTCH SONGS. Restore me the rock where the snow flake reposes, For still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains, Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing foun- tains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Ah! there my young footings in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I stray'd through the pine-cover'd glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star, For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, whilst the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car: Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr. Ul-starr'd, though brave, did vision foreboding, Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? Ah! where you designed to die at Culloden, Victory crown 'd not your fall with applause Still were you happy in death's early slumber. You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar, The pibroch resounds to the piper's bold number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch-na-garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again, Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you; Yet still you are dearer than Albion's plain. SCOTCH SONGS. 65* England, thy beauties are tame and domestic, To one who has roam'd on the mountains afar, 0, for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-garr. MARY'S DREAM. The lovely moon had climbed the hill Where eagles big aboon the Dee, And like the looks of a lovely dame, Brought joy to every body's ee; A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep, Her thoughts on Sandie far at sea; A voice drapt saftly on her ear, ' Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me!' She lifted up her waukening een, To' see from whence the voice might be, And there she saw her Sandie stand, Pale, bending on her hallow ee! ' O Mary dear, lament nae mair, I'm in death's tnraws below the sea; Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me! * The wind slept when we left the bay, But soon it waked and raised the main, And God he bore us down the deep, Who strave wi' him but strave in vain! He stretch'd his arm, and took me up, Tho' laith I was to gang but thee: I look frae heaven aboon the storm, Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me! * Take aff thae bride sheets frae thy bed Which thou hast faulded down for me; Unrobe thee of thy earthly stole — ' I'll meet wi' %hee in heaven hie.' 66 SCOTCH SONGS. Three times the gray cock flapt his wing, To mark the morning lift her ee, And thrice the passing spirit said, ' Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me!' THE BANKS OF THE DEE. Tune — ' Langolee.'' 9 Twas summer and saftly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree; At the foot of a rock where the river is flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on thou sweet river, Thy banks, purest stream, shall be dear to me ever, For there I first gain'd the affection and favor Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee. But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourn- ing, To quell the proud rebels — for valiant is he; And ah! there's no hopes of his speedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee. He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the loud roaring bil- lows, The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows: And left me to stray 'mongst the once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee. But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he returns, with such care I'll -watch o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying; The lambs on its banks, shall again be seen playing; While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee. SCOTCH SONGS. 67 SOUND, PIBROCH, SOUND. Tune — ' Eiridh na Finnacha Gaelach. 9 Sound, Pibroch, sound! on each flame lighted scaur, The red beacon waves its glad summons to war; Too long has old Albin been bow'd to the yoke, Too long ere the pride of the tartan awoke. Dun Edin shall welcome her monarch again, We have spurn'd at the Saxon and trampled the chain: Burst forth in your wrath, and the fight shall be won, Ere the echoes return to the roar of the gun. Sound, pibroch sound! with thy soul- stirring peal, Call the men of Glenulin, the sons of Lochiel; Our prince is among us, with claymore and plaid, And plaid and claymore shall stand forth to his aid. Come down like your torrents full flush'd with the rain, Cry your war cry like eagles that scream o'er the slain, One wild day of battle, one rush on the foe, And the traitors shall quail, the usurper lie low. THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER. When wild war's deadly blast was blown, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger. A leal light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia hame again I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, 68 SCOTCH SONGS. I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach 'd the bonnie glen, Where early life I sported; I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted; Wha spied I but my ain dear maid Down by her mother's dwelling; And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 0! happy, happy may he be, That's dearest to thy bosom! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang; Take pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was than ever; duo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, - Forget him shall I never; Our humble cot and namely fare, Ye freely shall partake it; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye 're welcome for the sake o't. She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — Syne pale like ony lily, She sunk within my arms, and cried, Art thou my ain dear Willie? By him who made yon sun and sky, By whom true love's regarded, I am the man; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. scotch songs. 69 The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. . Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly! For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the sodger s prize; The sodger's wealth is honor; The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger;, Remember he's his country's stay In day and hour of danger. SANDY AND JENNIE. Come, come, bonnie Lassie, cried Sandy, awa, Whilst mither is spinning, and father's afa'; The folks are at work, and tho, bairns are at play, And we will be married, dear Jenny, to day. Stay, stay, bonnie Laddie, then cried I with speed, I Wo'na, I ma na go with you indeed; Besides should I do so, what would the folks say, So we carina marry, dear Sandy, to-day. List, list bonny Lassie, and mind what you do, For Peggy and Patty I give up for you; Besides a full twelvemonth we've trifled away, And one or the other I'll marry to-day. Fie, fie, bonny Laddie, then cried I again, For Peggy you kiss'd t'other day on the plain: Besides a new ribbon does Patty display, And we canna marry, dear Sandy, to-day. 70 SCOTCH SOXGS. O, then, a good-bye, bonnie Lassie, cried he, For Peggy and Patty are waiting for me; The kirk is hard by, and the bell calls away, And Peggy or Patty I'll marry to day. Stay, stay, bonnie Laddie, cried I with a smile, For know I was jesting, indeed, all the while; Let Peggy go spin, and send Patty away, And we w 7 ill be married, dear Sandy, to-day. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. John Anderson my Jo, John, When nature first began To try her canny hand, John, Her master work was man; And you aboon them a' John, So trig from top to toe, She pro^'d to be no journey-work, John Anderson my Jo. And you aboon them a', &c. John Anderson my Jo, John, When first we were acquaint, Your locks were like the sloe, John, Your bonny brow w r as brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my Jo. But now your brow, &c. John Anderson my Jo, John, What pleasure 'tis to see, The young, the lively brood, John, Bred up 'twixt you and me. And ilka lad and lass, John, In our footsteps to go, SCOTCH SONGS. 71 Sure makes a heaven here on earth John Anderson my Jo. And ilka lad and lass, &c. John Anderson my Jo, John, Fates up and down we've kent. Yet aye whate'er our lot, John, We with it were content; And that's the best of gear, John, It frae us ne'er can go, Tho' goud be scant, love we'll ne'er want, John Anderson my Jo. And that's the best o' gear, &c. John Anderson my Jo, John, Life's hill we clam thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; But now we're tott'ring down, John, So hand and hand we go, And we'll sleep thegither at the fit, JoKn Anderson my Jo. But now we're tott'ring down, &c. John Anderson my Jo, John, When we again awake, Our bairns we will collect, John, And then our journey take; For hearts devoid of guile, John, Find friends where'er they go, And seraphs bright shall guide us right, John Anderson my Jo. For hearts devoid of guile, &c. KATHARINE OGIE. As walking forth to view the plain, Upon a morning early, While May's sweet scent did cheer ray brain From flow'rs which grew so rarely, 72 SCOTCH SONGS. I chanc'd to meet a pretty maid, She shin'd though it was fogie, I ask'd her name; Sweet sir, she said, My name is Kath'rine Ogle. I stood awhile, and did admire, To see a nymph so stately; So brisk an air there did appear, In a country maid so neatly, Such natural sweetness she display'd, Like lilies in a bogie; Diana's self waj neer array 'd Like this same Kath'rine Ogie. Thou flow'r of females, Be uitie's queen, Who sees thee sure must prize thee, Though thou art drest in robes but mean, Yet these cannot disguise thee; Thy handsome air, and graceful look, Far excels a clownish rogje; Thou'rt match for laird, or lord, or duke, My charming Kath'rine Ogie. O! were I but some shepherd swain, To feed my flock beside thee ; At bughting-time to leave the plain, In milking to abide thee; I'd. think myself a happier man, With Kate, my club and dogie; Than he that hugs his thousands ten, Had I but Kath'rine Ogie, a Fd despise the imperial throne, And statesmen's dang'rous stations; I'd be no king. I'd wear no crown, I'd smile at conqu'ring nations; Might I caress, and still possess This lass of whom I'm vogie; For they are toys, and still look less, Compar'd with Kath'rine Ogie. SCOTCH SONGS. 73 But I fear the gods have not decreed For me so fine a creature; Whose beauty rare makes her exceed All other works in nature. Clouds of despair surround my love, That are both dark and fogie; Pity my case, ye powers above, Else I die for Kath'rine Ogie. LOCHINVAR. O young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best — And save his good broadsword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none: But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late, For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — " O come ye in peace, here, or come ye war, " Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" " I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; " Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; " And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, " To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine. " There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, " That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. 4 74 SCOTCH SONGS. The bride kiss'd the goblet, the Knight took it up. He quaff d off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar; "Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume. And the bride-maidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far, " To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch- invar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach 'd the hall-door and the charger stood near, So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung. " She's won, we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur, <* They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, SCOTCH SONGS. 75 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie; There simmer first unfaulds her robes, And there they langest tarry; For there I took the last farewell Of my dear Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom 'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom; As underneath her fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves assunder. But 0! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early; Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary. O pale, pale now those rosy lips, I oft hae kiss'd sae fondly; And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly; But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. THE MARINER'S WIFE. But are you sure the news is true? And are you sure he's well? 76 SCOTCH SONGS. Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye lass, fling by your wheel. There's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's nae luck about the house, When our good man's awa. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin 's at the door? Gr me my cloak, I'll down the key, And see him come ashore. There's nae luck about the house, &c. Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gi 5 little Kate her cotton gown, And Jack his Sunday's coat. There's nae luck, &c. Mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockings white as snaw, It's a' to pleasure our good man, He likes to see them braw*. There's nae luck, &c. There are twa hens into the crip, I've fed this month or mair; Make haste to throw their necks about, That Colin well may fare. There's nae luck, &c. Bring down to me my bigonet, My bishop-satin gown, And then gae tell the Bailie's wife, That Colin's come to town. There's nae luck, &c. My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stockings of pearl blue, SCOTCH SONGS. 77 And a' to pleasure our good man, For he's both leal and true. There's nae luck, &c. Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue, His breath's like cauler air, His very tread has music in't, As he comes up the stair. There's nae luck, &c. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the joy, And e'en I'm like to greet. There's nae luck, &c. THE JOLLY BEGGARS. a cantata. — By Robert Burns. RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hail stanes drive wi' bitter skite, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest! Ae night at e'en a merry core O' randie gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies*! Wi 5 quffing and laughing, They ranted and they sang; Wi' jumping and thumping, The vera girdle rang. First niest the fire in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, 78 SCOTCH SONGS. Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — She blmket on her sodger; An' ay he gives the tozie drab The tither skelpin kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an aumos dish. Ilk smack still did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIR. Tune — ■ Soldiers Joy.'' I. I am a son of Mars, who have been in many ware, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. II. My prenticeship I past where my leader breath 'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. ^ Lai de daudle, &c. III. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to lead me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV. And now, tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, SCOTCH SONGS. 79 I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet. As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Lai de daudle, &c, V. What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the wintei shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell. I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c RECITATIVO. He ended, and the kebars sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skir'd out encore! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar. AIR, Tune — i Soldier Laddie."* I. I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c. II. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg wa3 so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my socger laddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c. 80 SCOTCH SONGS. III. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church; He ventured the soul, and I risked the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger h ddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c. V. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till I met my auld boy at Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c VI. \nd now I have liv'd — I know not how long, \nd still I can join in a cup or a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady 3 Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, lal de lal, &c. RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu' weel to deck the sterling, For monie a pursie she nad hooked, And had in monie a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, *But weary fu' the waefu' woody! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wari her braw John Highlandman. SCOTCH SONGS. 81 AIR. I. A highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. CHORUS. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman, Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman, There's not a lad in a' the Ian 9 Was match for my John Highlandman. II. With his philibeg, an' tartan plaid, An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts' he did trepan, " My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. III. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c V. But O! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast; My curse upon them every one, They've haag'd my braw John Highlandman. 4* Sing, hey, &c. 82 SCOTCH SONGS. VI. And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd to trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gaucy middle, He reach 'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key, The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. AIR. Tune — ' Whistle o'er the lave cfV I. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, An' go w r i' me to je my dear, An' then your ev'ry care and fear May whistle o'er the lave o't. CHORUM / am a fiddler to my trade, And a* the tunes that e'er I play' d, The sioeetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle o'er the lave o't. II. At kirns and weddings we'se be there. And 0! sae nicely 's we will fare; SCOTCH SONGS. We'll house about till daddie Care Sing whistle o'er the lave o't. I am, &c. HI. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, An, sun oursels about the dyke, An' at our leisure, when we like, We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, And while I kittle hair on thairns, Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms, May whistle o'er the lave o't. I am, &c. REC1TATIV0. Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, As weel as poor gut-scraper; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a rusty rapier. He swore by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he would, from that time forth, Relinquish her forever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee, Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, And so the quarrel ended. But though liis little heart did grieve, When round the tinker press'd her He feign'd to smirtle in his sleeve, When thus the Caird address'd her. 84 SCOTCH SONGS. AIR. Tune — ■ Clout the Caudron. 9 I. My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinker is my station; I've travell'd round all christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron; But vain they search'd, when off I mareh'd To go and clout the caudron. I've ta'en the gold, &c. II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin, And tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron. And by that stowp! my faith and houp, And by that dear kilbaigie, If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. And by that stowp, &c. RECITATIVO. The Gaird prevail 'd — th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercorne sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violina wi' an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And made the bottle clunk To their health that night. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie, SCOTCH SONGS. 85 The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limpin wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, And shor'd them dainty Davie O' boot that night. He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed; Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had nae wish, but — to be glad, Nor want, but — when he thirsted! He hated nought but — to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night. AIR. Tune — • For a' that, and a' that. 9 I. I am a Bard of no regard Wi' gentle folk, an' a* that; But Homer-like the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. CHORUS. For a' that, and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that; Pve lost but ant, Pve twa behin\ I've wife enough for a' that. II. I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, and a' that; But th*>re it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c. 86 SCOTCH SONGS. III. Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, and a' that; But lordly will I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. IV. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love, and a' that? But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c. V. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, They've ta'en me in, and a' that; But clear your decks, and here's the sex, I like the jads for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome tilVt for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Shook wi' a thunder of applause, Re-echo 'd from each mouth; They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again the jovial thrang The poet did request, To low'se his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the L jst. He, rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus. SCOTCH SONGS. 87 AIR. Tune — c Jolly mortals, fill your glasses.'' I. See the smoking bowl before us! Mark our jovial, ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast, Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. II. What is title? what is treasure? What is reputation's care? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where. A fig, &c. III. With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night in barn, or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. IV. Does the train attended carriage Thro 5 the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? A fig, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; 88 SCOTCH SONGS. Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c. VI. Here's to budgets, bags and wallets Here's to all the wandering train; Here's our ragged brats and callets! One and all cry out amen. A Jig for those by lato protected, Liberty's a glorious feast; Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. SMILE AGAIN, MY BONNIE LASSIE. Smile again, my bonnie lassie, Lassie, smile again! Prithee do not frown, sweet lassie, For it gives me pain. If to love thee too sincerely Be a fault in me, Thus to use me so severely Is not kind in thee. Smile again, &c. Fare thee well, my bonnie lassie, Lassie, fare thee well, Time will show thee, bonnie lassie, More than tongue can tell. Tho' we're doom'd by Fate to sever, (And 'tis hard to part,) Still, believe me, thou shalt ever Owp thy faithful heart. Then smile again, &c. IRISH SONGS. WHACK FOR O'SHAUGHNASHANE. Parody on " Hail to the Chief:' Hail to our chief now he's wet through with whis- key! Long life to the lady come from the salt seas! Strike up blind harpers! hey to be frisky! For what is so gay as a bag full of fleas! Crest of O'Shaughnashane! That's a potatoe, plain, Long may your root every Irishman know! Pats long have stuck to it Long bid good luck to it; Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — tooley whagg ho! Ours is an esculent, lusty and lasting, No turnip, or other weak babe of the ground; Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting Half Erin's inhabitants all the year round. Wants the soil, where 'tis flung, Hogs, cows, or horses' dung, Still does the crest of O'Shaughnashane grow; Shout for it Uulster men ! Till the bogs quake again! Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — tooley whagg ho! Drink, Paddies, drink! to the lady so shining! While flow'rets shall open and bog-trotters dig, So, long may the sweet rose of beauty be twining Around the potatoe of proud Blarney-gig! While the plant vegetates, While whiskey re-creates, 90 IRISH SONGS. Wash down the root from the horns that o'erflow; Shake your Shellelaghs, boys! Screeching drunk, scream your joys! Whack for O'Shaughnashane! — tooley whagg ho! ONE BOTTLE MORE. Assist me, ye lads, who have heints void of guile, To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle, Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more: One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more, And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England your taunts on our country forbear; With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere; For if but one bottle remains in our store: We have generous hearts to give that bottle more. That bottle more, &c. At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set Of six Irish blades who together had met: Four bottles a-p:ece made us call for a score, And nothing remained but one bottle more. One bottle more, &c. Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart, Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman roar, And the whack from shilelah brought six bottles more. Six bottles more, &c. Slow Phoebus had shone through our window so bright, Q,uite happy to view his blest children of light: So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore, Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more. Twelve bottles more, &c. IRISH SONGS. 91 MISTER O'LIFFERTY. As gray as a baSger, as bald as a Turk, Was Father O'Lifferty, priest of our kirk, That's famed Carrickfergus, good luck to the place! In preaching he was sure of mighty great note, In love he was frisky and wild as a goat; My mother was frail, and the priest, people said, Put an ugly big horn on my dad's handsome head, And thus stole the making my beautiful face. I remember the very first day I was born, Was at night, as I'm told, just at breaking of morn, Och! the whiskey-punch smiled from a brown earthen J u £ ! . And sure I'm a man now of mighty high birth, For I first in a garret drew. breath on this earth, Where our neat feather-bed was some straw, to be sure, That was neatly shaked up and spread down on the floor; Thus popt into the world my sweet good-looking mug. Then my mother, impatient to get me a name, Straight sent for the priest, and, faith, straight the priest came, With his bandy-bent legs and his crooked hunch- back! Said my mother, there's whiskey, sir, take a smaU sup", Cried the priest, ' faith I will,' and he drank the quart up. TVith the whiskey half-muzzed, and the smoke that he took, Taking me in his arms, he took out his big book, And he christened me Murphy M'Clahan in a crack. Said the priest, * now the christening is done 'tis all o'er, Only just now I'll tak to't a pair of names more. 92 IRISH SONGS. That's Brien O'Lifferty sure, and here goes! So fill up more whiskey and put roun<} the joke, For I'll take one more whiff, while I'll take t'other smoke!' c Och' cried nurse, ( you're just like as two peas in a pod!' Cried the priest ' faith, we are, only one thing is odd, That I squint at each ear, the boy squints at his nose.' Now I've ended I'll tell how my squinting was stopp'd, I was into a tub of fat buttermilk dropp'd, And sure that put my eyes to this straight-forward looking! All the blood in my bones was turned with the fright, That my eyes gave a jump, and that just set 'em right, And though now you may say I'm an odd sort of fish, Yet for love I'd have been a most elegant dish, If I had not been cursedly spoiled in the cooking! Sure I've taken a wife as a fixture, d'ye see, And no doubt on't at all a neat mixture 'twill be, Och! of sweet boys and girls, sure we'll have 'em by dozens! But a mighty odd notion's just took in my head, If I'd thought on it before, I don't think I'd have we«4, For our children, (though, faith, the relationship'.-* new, Yet as I am gentile and she is a Jew) 'Stead of brothers and sisters, they'll onlv be cous- ins!!! THE MAID OF ERIN. My thoughts delight to wander, Upon a distant shore; Where lovely, fair, and tender, Is she whom I adore. IRISH SONGS. 93 May Heaven its blessings sparing. On her bestow them free, The lovely maid of Erin, Who sweetly sang to me. Had fortune fix'd my station, In some propitious hour, The monarch of a nation, Endow'd with wealth and power, That wealth and power sharing, My peerless queen should be, The lovely maid of Erin, Who sweetly sang to me. Although the restless ocean May long between us roar, Yet while my heart has motion, She'll lodge within its core; For artless and endearing, And mild and young is she,, The lovely maid of Erin, Who sweetly sang to me. When fate gives intimation That my last hour is nigh, With placid resignation I'll lay me down and die; Fond hope my bosom cheering, That I in heaven shall see The lovely maid of Erin, Who sweetlv sang to me. KATTY O'RANN. Was not Patrick O'Lilt, sure, a broth of a lad, Who bartered what money and baubles he had, For the love of his sweetheart, Miss Katty O'Rann! Since he fell deep in love, faith! no longer the spade 94 i IRISH SO\ T GS. He handled, or followed the turf-cutting trade; But sung day and night to make his heart light, And swore for his Ratty he'd die or he'd fi^ht; Thus did Patrick O'Lilt for Miss Katty O'Rann. He sung out his love in a sorrowful strain; His warbling she heard, but she laughed at his pain; Which he could not bear from Miss Katty O'Rann, 'Twas enough to have melted the heart of a stone, To have heard the poor lad sing, sigh, mutter and moan; While she turned her nose, which stood always awry: And plump on another she cast her sheep's eye, Crying * Pat you won't do for Miss Katty O'Rann.' As he found no impression he made on the maid, Faith, he shovelled himself out of life with his spade, Determined to perish for Katty O'Rann; For with spade, axe, and mallet, about his neck tied, He plunged in the Liffey and there for her died! As he sunk from the shore, he cried, * Katty no more Shall you trouble my spirit, or make my bones sore; So bad luck to you beautiful Katty O'Rann. CUSHLAMACREE. Dear Erin! how sweetly thy green bosom rises, An emerald set in the ring of the sea; Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, The queen of the west, the world's Cushlamacree. Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger; There smiles hospitality hearty and free; Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger, And the wand'rer is welcom'd with Cushlamacree. Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once over, In brotherly peace with their foes they agree; And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover The soul-speaking blush, that says Cushlamacree. IRISH SONGS. 95 Then flourish for ever, my dear native Erin, While sadly I wander, an exile from thee! And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing, May Heaven defend its own Cushlamacree. KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain. Oh! what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy; — O! Barney M'Cleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortune will never come single, 'tis plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. PADDY THE PIPER. When I was a boy in my father's mud edifice, Tender and bare as a pig in a stye, Out at the door as I look'd with a steady phiz: Who but Pat Murphy the piper came by! Says Paddy, but few play this music, can you play? Says I, I cant tell, for I never did try. He told me that he had a charm, To make the pipes prettily speak, Then squeez'd a bag under his arm, And sweetly they set up a squeak! 96 IRISH SONGS. With a fara lara loo, ogh! hone, how he handled the drone, And then such sweet music he blew, 'twould have melted the heart of a stone. Your pipe, says I, Paddy, so neatly comes over me, Naked I'll wander wherever it blows; And if my father should try to recover me, Sure it won't be by describing my clothes. The music I hear now takes hold of my ear now, And leads me all over the world by the nose; So I folio w'd his bag-pipes so sweet, And sang as I leap'd like a frog, Adieu to my family seat, So pleasantly placed in a bog; And then such sweet music he blew, 'twould have melted the heart of a stone. With my fara lara, &c. Full five years I follow'd him, nothing could sunder us, Till he one morning had taken a sup, And slipp'd from a bridge into a river just under us, Souse to the bottom just like a blind pup! I roar'd and I bawl'd out, and lustily call'd out, O Paddy my frierd, don't you mean to come up? He was dead as a nail in the door, Poor Paddy was laid on the shelf, So I took up His pipes on the shore, And now I've set up for myself, With my fara lara, to be sure I have not got the knack, To play fara lara, &c. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. Tune — ' Arrah, my dear Eveleen? Silent, oh Moyle! be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose! While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. IRISH SONGS. 97 When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd? When shall heav'n, its sweet bell ringing Call my spirit from this stormy world? Sadly, oh Moyle! to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away: Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will Heav'n, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above? PADDY O'FLANAGAN. 'Twas Paddy 'Flanagan set out one morning From Dublin, sweet city, to London on foot, In an old tatter'd jacket, all foppery scorning, With a shoe on his leg and his neck in a boot, Musha whack! in no time he walked over the water, And soon set his head on England's famed shore, While for joy of his safety while his stomach did totter, He sung Teddy O'Rielly and Molly Ashtore, With his philulu hubbuboo hugamauairnee, Musha gra botheration and smalliloo huh. A place he soon got when in London arrived, sir, To brush up a gemmen and wait on his coat, Where he soon learnt to know that just four beans make five, sir, And could tell you a tale with his tongue down his throat. Now one day, while Pat was his master attending, In his study, where letters around him did lay, When he begged hard for one to his friends to be send- ing* As 'twould save him from writing and be the best way. 5 With his philulu, &c. 98 IRISH SONGS. Soon after being sent with a basket and letter, Crammed full of live pigeons to give to a friend, Enraged at their fluttering, he thought it was better To set them at large, and their misery end; Then on, joy, he went to the place where directed, But the door had no knocker, so what does he do? Faith, he knocked at the next, where the servant at- tending, Cried Pat it's your knocker I want and not you. With your philulu, &c. Being brought 'fore the gemmen, he gave him the note. Who said, in the letter here's pigeons I find, By jabus, says Pat, that's a very good joke, For they fled from the basket and left me behind, The gentleman swore for the loss he must pay, Or on losing his place for a certain depend; Pat replied, to your offer I'll not once say nay, If you'll be so kind as the money to lend. With your philulu, &c. Being pleas'd with the joke, poot Pat got forgiv'n, For though blunder on blunder, no harm there was meant, And if he's not dead, with his master he's living; And when not out of humor, is always content, Nay, more, Paddy Flanagan joins in the wish, That the cares of our friends may soon find a de- crease, That war may be drown'd on dry land with the fish, And the world forever taste blessings of peace. PADDY CAREY'S FORTUNE, Twas at the town of nate Clogheen, That Sergeant Snap met Paddy Carey, ibish songs. 99 A claner boy was never seen, Brisk a bee, and light, as fairy, His brawny shoulders four feet square, His cheeks like thumping red potatoes, His legs would make a chairman stare, And Pat was loved by all the ladies, Old and young, grave and sad — Deaf and dumb, dull and mad — Waddling, twaddling, limping, squinting, Light, tight, and airy! Ail the sweet faces At Limerick races, From Mullinavat to Magherafelt, At Paddy's beautiful name would melt; The sow Is would cry And look so shy, # Och! Cushlamacree, Did you never see, The jolly boy, the darling boy, The coaxing boy, the ladies toy! Nimble-footed, black-eyed, rosy cheek, curly-head* ed, Paddy Carey! O sweet Paddy! Beautiful Paddy! Nate little, tight little, Paddy Carey! His heart was made of Irish oak, Yet soft as streams from sweet Killarney; His tongue was tipt with a bit o ? the brogue, But the devil a bit at all of the blarney, Now Serjeant Snap, so shy and keen, While Pat was coaxing duck-legg'd Mary, A shilling slipt, so nate and clean; By the powers! he listed Paddy Carey, Tight and sound, strong and light: Cheeks so round, eyes so bright! 100 IRISH SONGS. Whistling, humming, drinking drumming, Light, tight and airy! Ail the sweet faces, &c. The sowls wept loud, the crowd was great When waddling forth, came widow Lear} 7 ; Though she was crippled in her gait, Her brawney arms ciasp'd Paddy Carey, ■ Och, Pat,' she cried, ' go buy the ring; Here's cash galore, my darling honey;' Says Pat, * you sow!' I'll do that thing,' And clapt his thumb upon her money! Gimlet eye, sausage nose, — Pat so sly, ogle throws, Learing, tittering, jeering, frittering, ^Sweet widow Leary! All the sweet faces, &c. When Pat had thus his fortune made He pressed the lips of Mrs. Leary, And mounting straight a large cockade, In captain's boots struts Paddy Carey; He, grateful, praised her shape, her back, To others like a dromedary; Her eyes, that seem'd their strings to crack, Were cupid's darts to Captain Carey! Neat and sweet, no alloy, — All complete love and joy: Ranting, roaring, soft adoring, Dear widow Leary! All the sweet faces At Limerick races, From Mullinavat to Magherafelt, At Paddy's promotion sigh and melt; The sowls all cry, As the groom struts by, Och! Cushlamacree, Thou art lost to me! ■•J f IRISH SONGS. 101 The jolly boy, the darling boy! The ladies' toy, the widow's joy! Long sword girted, — neat, short skirted, Head cropp'd, whisker-chopp'd, Captain Carey! O, sweet Paddy! Beautiful Paddy! White-feather'd, boot-leather'd, Paddy Carey! MY OWN NATIVE ISLE. There's an isle, clasp'd by waves, in an emerald zone, Tha* peers forth froi-n ocean so pearl-like and fair, As if nature meant it the water-king's throne; A youth, whom I name not, remembers me there. The breeze now in murmurs, a plaint brings from far, From my own native isle, and my lover's guitar. Oh! cheerthee, fond mourner, let hope's whisper soften The wild pang of absence and doubts too unkind; The maid thou upbraidest, for thee sighs as often, And speeds gentle wishes by every wind. Then winds blow ye homeward, waves waft me afar, To my own native isle, and my lover's guitar. PADDY O'LEARY AND MISS JUDY M'SNIFTER. Adown a dark alley I courted a maid, Miss Judy M'Snifter, who wash'd for a trade, Och Cupid led me a figary; Her toes they turned in, and her back it greto out, And her eyes look'd so melting across her snout, They bother'd poor Paddy O'Leary, Mr. Leary, Paddy Leary, Och fillilililoo, fol de rol de rol. Miss Judy M'Snifter was bandy, 'tis true, Her mouth very wide, and her nose rather blue, 102 IRISH SONGS She put me in such a quandary; Says she, * I could love you the whole of my life, But they say that in Ireland you've left your old wife,' 1 Don't believe it,' said Paddy O'Leary. Mr. Leary, &c. So a bargain we made soon at church to say grace, Which I seaPd with a kiss on her sweet yellow face, But I soon did repent my figary; When we had been married a year and a day, With a dirty coal-heaver my wife ran away, ' Devil speed you,' said Paddy O'Leary. Mr. Leary, &c. Crim. Con. we all know, is the rage in this town, So for damages I thought to make him come down: But the law it was devlish contrary; For all that they gave — when much blarney 'd been said, For planting a pair of big horns on my. head, Was five shillings to Paddy O'Leary. Mr. Leary, &c. THE HUMOURS OF AN IRISH FAIR. It's the drop of good whiskey That makes my heart friskey, Arrah! down goes the cratur, with a tear in my eye, Shellelagh we'll battle, On foes' heads we'll rattle, Ding dong at each noddle — for mercy they cry; Now down they are falling, On hands and knees crawling, My Judy cries ' Bravo! good luck to you Pat! Och! faith you're the dandy, You nick'd 'em so handy, You tipp'd Jerry Casey, and down he went flat.' IRISH SONGS. 103 Spoken.] Yes, by my soul, down he went, sure enough, and when he was down I gave him the devil's own to bring him up again, saying, Horo buglamy, ditheramy corragi, Horo buglamy, row de row row. Now the foe is all scatter'd, With heads and limbs batter'd, Whack goes shellelagh, with joyful huzza; My rival, big Jerry, In a devil of a hurry, Frowns on my Judy and then runs away; Och! the joy that this gave me, Faith, never will leave me, I kiss'd my sweet cratur, and squeez'd her soft fist; I'll be my own speaker, And my own I will make her, And be true to my Judy, as the sun to the east — ■ Spoken.'] Aye, by the powers! and if any one in- sults my darling, I'll take my blackthorn in my fist, Ju- dy shall put a stone in her stocking, and we'll go thro* the fair singing, Horo buglamy, &c. Next homeward retiring, Each sweetheart admiring, And binding the wounds of each favorite swain; Recounting the actions Between the two factions, And swearing to fight if we meet them again: Next morning, what pity, With mournful ditty, I weep over Jerry for breaking his sconce; We embrace one another Like brother and brother, The piper's play up and we join in the dance — Spoke?i.] Yes, and we're always better friends af- ter beating one another, than ever we were before; 104 IRISH SONGS. and, whilst the piper plays, we drown animosity in the real stuff, and sing, Horo buglumy, &c. SHANNON'S FLOWERY BANKS. In summer when the leaves were green, and blossoms deck'd each tree, Young Teddy then declar'd his love, his artless love to me; On Shannon's flow'ry banks we sat, and there he told his tale, 0, Patty, softest of thy sex! 0, let fond love prevail! Ah, well-a-day, you see me pine in sorrow and despair, Yet heed me not, then let me die, and end my grief and care. Ah, no dear yputh, I softly said, such love demands my thanks, And here I vow eternal truth — on Shannon's flow'ry banks. And here we vow'd eternal truth on Shannon's flow'ry banks, And then we gather'd sweetest flow'rs, and play'dsuch artless pranks; But, woe is me! the press-gang came, and forc'd my Ted away Just when we nam'd next morning fair to be our wed- ding-day. 4 My love,' he cried, « they force me hence, but still my heart is thine; e All peace be yours, my gentle Pat, while war and toil be mine: 1 With riches, I'll return to thee.' I sobb'd out words of thanks — And then he vow'd eternal truth on Shannon a flow'ry banks. IRISH SONGS. 105 And then we vow'd eternal truth on Shannon's flow'ry banks, And then I saw him sail away and join the hostile ranks ; From morn to eve for twelve dull months, his absence sad I mourn'd, The peace was made — the ship came back — but Teddy ne'er return'd! His beauteous face, his manly form, has won a nobler fair — My Teddy's false, and I, forlorn, must die in sad de- spair, Ye gentle maidens, see me laid, while you stand round in ranks, And plant a willow o'er my head on Shannon's flow'ry banks. LARRY CARNEY. When a man that's in service is out of employ, He's confin'd to be roving all day; What he wants he may whistle for: I wish him joy Of the meals that wo'nt come in his way. Spoken.] O, for a nice pitchfork eel and a cold slice of melted butter to it; or a turban and lobster sauce; or the lovely beefsteak lining that makes the under crust of pigeon pye! O, don't mention it! * There's a time for all things,' they say, but I know no more about dinner-time than a cat does of churning salt-butter. — ' No Song no Supper,' is another old saw, but though I sing all day, sorrow the taste of supper I get morning, noon or night. Which makes me now lament and say, (Imitation of the original singer.) • May we ne'er want a friend, or a bottle to give him,' 5* 106 IRISH SONGS. Like an owl that sits moping I wander about, And stand kicking my heels as I go; And without a new service shall soon be, no donbt, Out of elbows from top. to the toe. Spoken.) I hav'nt a whole thread upon me that isn't in tatters, and if I keep Lent much longer, I'll be a perfect rag-bag of bones. I'm a great mind to travel to London, where they say the flint-stones in the street are all gold; and the pigs, plum-puddings, and other poultry, run about ready dressed, crying, * Cut and come again.' No I won't, for though I am out of bread, I know on which side it's buttered; and though London may be the place for the * loaves and fishes,' (Imitation of the original singer.) ' They're fishermen all, fishermen all; 'Tol de rol lol, fishermen all.' O, Ireland, why from thee did ever I stray? While I stop here, 'mid pother and strife, I'd better go back; for if here I should stay I'll be kilt all the rest of my life, • Spoken.] I've made up my mind at first sight, be- cause second thoughts are best, I'll be married to Pat- ty, and if she won't have me, I'll die an old maid for her sake; though I could return to Kilkenny and wed old Deborah Dogherty, whose first husband died the day before they were married, and left her a disconsolate widow. (Imitation of the original singer.) ' With a rich pair of pockets o'erflowing with charms, 4 i\nd very much in fashion, for she'd very little clothes,' * The old maid cast a roguish eye, ' At me, says I, O, great Ramchoodra' i You love dancing, so do I.' Ri tol lol, &c. IRISH SONGS. 107 THE SPRIG OF SHELLELAGH. Och, love is the soul of a nate Irishman, He loves all the lovely, loves all. that he can, « With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; His heart is good humoured — '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 shellelagh and shamrock so green Who has ere had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there, With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without ever a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to a tent and he spends ha'f a crown, He meets with a friend and for love knocks him down, With his sprig of shellelagh 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 shellelagh and shamrock so green; He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, ' get ye gone, Pat,' yet consents all the while; To the priest then they go — and, nine months after that, A fine baby cries out, * how d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green!' Additional verse. Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth. Where grows the shellelagh and shamrock so green, May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed and the Shan- non, Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy, at loyalty's shrine, 108 IRISH SONGS. May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green. NED GROGAN. Ned Grogan, dear joy, was the son of his mother, And as like her, it seems, as one peft to another; But to find out his dad he was put to the rout, As many folks wiser have been, joy, no doubt. To this broth of a boy oft his mother would say, * When the moon shines, my jewel, be making your hay; Always ask my advice, when the business is done; For two heads, sure, you'll own, are much better than one.' Spoken.] So, Neddy, taking it into his pate to fetch a walk over to England, stepped to ask the advice of his second head; but by St. Patrick, a drop of the cra- ture had made her speechless, and so being dead into the bargain, all that he could get out of her was Phililu, bodderoo, whack, gramachree. Ned's mother being waked, to England he came, sir, Big with hopes of promotion, of honor, and fame, sir, Where a snug birth he got, d'ye mind, by my soul, To be partner, dear joy, with a knight of the pole; For Larry to teach him his art proving willing, Soon taught him the changes to ring with a shilling, And that folks, when not sober, are easily won; Which proves that two heads, joy, are better than one. Spoken.] Och, to be sure and they didn't carry on a roaring trade, till Larry having the misfortune to take a drop too much at the Old Bailey, poor Grogan was once more left alone to sing Phililu, &c. IKJSH SONGS 109 Left alone, sure, 0'<> irogan set up for himself, Got a partner, and 'tuixi them got plenty of pelf; And because he * as plas'd with a batchelor's hfe, Married Katty O'Doody who' made him her wife. For some time they pi.n d joy, hke kittens so frisky, Till Katty, och hone, took to drinking of whiskey; Sold his sticks, and away with his par ner d d run, Proving still that two heads are rrmch better than one. Spoken.] Och, bad luck to her! cried Grogan: to be sure, I took her for better or worse; but since she's proved all worse and no better, faith! her loss makes me sing Phililu, &c. FAREWELL TO MY HARP. Tune — ( New Langolee.' Dear harp of my country! iri darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence hud hung o'er thee long, When proudly my own Island Harp I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song; The warm lay of love, and the light note of gladness, Have waken *d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast, thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine, Go — sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch 'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy gloryalone; I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own! THE IRISH HAYMAKER. And did you ne'er hear of an Irish haymaker One Mr. O'RarTerty 3 — Then it is me; 110 IRISH SONGS. And my father he was, yes he was, a stay-maker, And I am the whalebone he danced on his knee, And och! ever since with the girls I've been jigging, Who cry, but don't mean it, • Pat leave me alone,' Then for whiskey, I an't, joy, eternally swigging, By my soul from the cradle I've suck'd it, I own. Then what d'ye think of an Irish haymaker? Och! an't he a devii the lasses to smack? With his didderoo-bub, and his little shellelagh, Sing up and down friskey, and fire away whack. There's Judy M 'Brawn, and I ne'er will forsake her, For, faith we are tied, so I can't get away, Then, she sings like an owl, when the maggot does take her, And growls, bites, and scratches, the long summer's day. Then her friend as she calls him, one Teddy 'Shaf- fer ty, To be sure she don't hug him as puss did the mouse, While he fondles, and calls her his sweet Mrs. Raf- ferty, What a blessing to have such a friend in a house! Then what, &c. Then do what I will, or wherever I'm walking, By my soul, I am watch 'd, night and day, out of sight, Nor the devil a word they believe when I'm talking, As if I u as given to swear black is white, One day, to be sure, I looked into a kitchen, And saw the pot boding, but not for poor Pat; But for love and for thieving I'd always an itching, So I took out the mutton and popped in the cat. Now what, &c. Och, luck to sweet summer, the fields, and the lasses, For sure we don't frisk it up hill and down dale, IRISH SONGS. Ill And then the dull hours so merrily passes, When we can't catch the pig for the grease on his tail. But the best joke of all, and it's joy past expressing, E'en the thought of it now makes me burn with de- light, Is Shelah's soft lips, when I give her a blessing, While we roll in the hay on a sunshiny night. Now what, &c. IRISH PROVIDENCE. Tune — ' Sprig of Shellelagh. My darling says Pat, to his spouse on his lap, At this present moment we're not worth a rap, With our faces so lean, and our duds on our backs, Our cow and pig, my dear Norah, are dead, Not a single potatoe is left us for bread, The science of ploughing my father taught me, So I'll e'en try the water and plough salt sea — With my jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. Says Norah, when you're on the ocean, my life, Sure Providence then will take care of your wife, For no babies have we, not a Jill nor a Jack; — But when Pat was away, what did Providence do? — Made the Squire build for Norah a cabin quite new; He furnished it gaily, to dry up her tears, And he peopled it too in the space of three years, — With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. But when Paddy return'd how it gladdened his heart, To see his dear Norah so fine and so smart, With her rings in her ears and her silks on her back, And who furnished for you this cabin, says Pat? 'Twas Providence, says Norah, himself that did that; Then Providence, Pat cried, as looking around, 112 IRISH SONGS. Is the neatest upholsterer ever was found, — With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. Then Norah, dear Norah, tell me, if you please, Whose four little chubby-cheeked rascals, are these? These little gossoons, with their locks all so black — They are mine, Pat, by Providence sent do you see, — Oh! botheration, says Pat, but that don't humbug me, For if Providence minds to send legs to your chairs, Sure he'll never forget to send fathers for heirs — With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. Oh! Norah, when I've been upon the salt sea, By St. Patrick, you've been a big traitress to me; May whiskey console me for I'm on the rack; For if Providence peoples my cabin with brats, While I'm sailing over live herrings and sprats, Mr. Deputy Providence never will do, So to him and Old Nick Til kick babies and you — Sing Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. OH! WHEN I BREATH'D A LAST ADIEU. Tune — i Within this village dwells a maid.' Oh! when I breath'd a last adieu To Erin's vales and mountains blue, Where nurs'd by hope my moments flew In life's unclouded spring; Tho' on the breezy deck reclin'd, I listen'd to the rising wind, What fetters could restrain the mind That rov'd on fancy's wing? She bore me to the w r oodbine bow'r, Where oft I pass'd the twilight hour, Where first I felt love's thrilling pow'r, From Kathleen's beaming eye: Again I watch'd her flushing breast; Her honey 'd lip again was prcss'd; IRISH SONGS. 113 Again, by sweet confession blest, I drank each melting sigh. Dost thou, Kathleen, my loss deplore, And lone on Erin's emerald shore, In memory trace the love I bore; On all our transports dwell? Can I forget the fatal day That call'd me from thy arms away, When nought was left me but to say 1 Farewell, my love — farewell!' THE TWIG OF SHELALY. Mulrooney's my name, I'm comical boy, A tight little lad at Shelaly; St. Paddy wid whiskey he suckled me, joy, Among the sweet bogs of Kelaly! The world I began with the prospect so fair, My dad was worth nothing, and I was his heir; So all my estate was a heart free from care, And a tight little twig of Shelaly. M Turn captain," cried dad, " and if kilt in de strife, Success and long life to Shelaly! Your fortune is made all the rest of your life, As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly." But thinks I, spite of what fame and glory bequeath, How conceited I'd look in a fine laurel wreath, Wid my head in my mouth to stand picking my teeth, Wid a tight little twig of Shelaly. Yet firmly both Ireland and England I'll aid, The lands of oak stick and Shelaly; For now these two sisters are man and wife made, As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly. 114 IRISH SONGS. I'll still for their friends have a heart w«rm and true, To their foes give my hand, for what else can I do? Yes, I'll give 'em my hand — but, along wid it too, A tight little twig of Shelaly. LET ERIN REMEMBER. Tune— 4 The Red Fox.' Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere faithless sons betray'd her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, Which he won from her proud invader; When her king, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red Branch knights to danger, Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough-Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days, In the wave beneath him shining! Thus shall memory ofen, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that's over; Thus sigh ; ng, look through the wave of time, For the long faded glories they cover. SPORTING SONGS. AWAY! AWAY, TO THE MOUNTAIN'S BROW. Away! away, to the mountain's brow, Where the trees are gently waving, Away! away, to the mountain's brow Where the stream is gently laving, And beauty, my love, on thy cheek shall dwell, Like the rose as it opes tc the day, While the zephyr that breathes thro' the flow'ry dell, Shakes the sparkling dew-drops away. Away! away, to the mountain's brow, &c. Away! away, to the rocky glen, Where the deer are wildly bounding, And the hills shall echo in gladness again, To the hunter's bugle sounding. While beauty, my love, on thy cheek shall dwell, Like the rose as it opes to the day, While the zephyr that breathes thro' he flow'ry dell, Shakes the sparkling dew-drops away. Away! away, to the rocky glen, &c. SONG OF THE SKATERS. This bleak and chilly morning, With frost the trees adorning, Though Phoebus below Were all in a glow, Through the sparkling snow A sk at i no- we s seemed to borrow, — - She smiled, looked around her, — but never spoke more. NAVAL SONGS. 155 In the grave, with the lad that she both lived and died for, Were laid the remains of the girl he loved dear; And while to his memory his mates heave a sigh for, Each lover will give to his Susan's a tear. Not a flint marks the spot where their bones lie en- shrouded, Yet the earth is held sacred and dear by the crew; And often, right oft, by the moonbeams, unclouded, Is a tear dropped for Will, and his Susan so true. TOxM STARBOARD. Tom Starboard was a lover true, As brave a tar as ever sail'd; The duties ablest seamen do Tom did and never yet had fail'd. But wreck'd as he was homeward bound, Within a league of New York's coast, Love saved him sure, from being drown 'd, For more than half the crew were lost. In fight Tom Starboard knew no fear; Nay, when he lost an arm — resigned, Said, love for Nan, his only dear, Had sav'd his life, and fate was kind; And now, though wreck'd, yet Tom return'd Of all past hardships made a joke; For still his manly bosom burn'd With love— his heart was heart of oak! His strength restor'd, Tom nimbly ran To cheer his love, his destin'd bride; But false report had brought to Nan, Six months before, her Tom had died. With grief she daily pin'd away, No remedy her life could 9a?e; And Tom arriv'd the very dav They laid his Nancy in the grave! 156 NAVAL SONGS. THE JOLLY BUCCANEER. In the good ship Revenge, how we've spank'd through the ocean, She's flush to our purpose, you ne'er saw the like; Balls and bullets whiz by, but ne'er cause an emotion, Till we're bowled down, boys, we never will strike, Thus success and seaman's cheer Glads the jolly Buccaneer. Fond of change, in all weathers and climates we're roving, Now a sort of hard tustle, and now a soft booze: With the girls and a fiddle, sometimes kind and loving, See popped off a messmate, and step in his shoes. Still success, &c. Well stored now with plunder, at nine knots we're steering, To where copper fair ones will greet us on shore; There we'll laugh, quaff, and sing, and with kissing and swearing, Our cargoes see out, then to sea, boys, for more. Still success, &c. THE LAST WHISTLE. Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast, Poor Jack's mizen-topsail is laid to the mast; He'll never turn out, or will more heave the lead, He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot a-head; Yet, though worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel a wreck, When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck Secure in his cabin, he's moored in the grave, Nor hears any more the loud roar of the wave; Pressed by death he is sen* to the tender below, Where lubbers and seamen must every one go; Yet though worms, &c. NAVAL SONGS. 157 With his frame a mere hulk, and his reck'ning on board, At last he dropt down to 'mortality's road; With Eternity's ocean before him in view, He cheerfully piped out — my messmates adieu; Yet though worms, &c. POOR TOM. Go patter to paper sculls, saps, d'ye see, With your time-serving cant, and the like; A clear head, a true heart, and sound bottom for me, And to no such palaver I'll strike, For, in dove-like disguise, though the hawk or the kite May cajole the' whole pigeon-house brood, Little time will discover how close he can bite When they find he plucks pigeons for food; Then avast, have a care, when you veer out advice, The right capstern you're winding it from, For, unless to your windpipe your heart you can splice, You may pipe till you're dumb for poor Tom. I, for pelf, might pretend that I'd found out the way How to lend a lame conscience a crutch, And such lingo launch out, both to coil and belay, That, you'd think me, good lord, a non-such; Full of sweet little maxims, touched up to a T, About matters aloft and below, And of cherubs perched up, like magpies in a tree, On the maintop, to take us in tow: But of what's done above stairs no knowledge I claim, Nor can I overhaul what's to come; And the tale of a prophet, when profit's his aim, Is the tale of a tub to Poor Tom. When I hear Doctor Stuffgut intemperance decry, While his table, from skies, earth and sea, 158 NAVAL SONGS. Is decked out with dainties, — sm\ that's all my eye, And his flock, too, what flats they must be, To be gulled by a thumb-cushion swab, one and all, When if service that moment vv'as o'er, He'd soon turn his back on St. Peter and Paul For the haunch of a buck or a boar; As the cherubs for him are the loaves and the fish, And for those at the mouth he will foam; But with Benjamin's mess let him p 'e up his dish, A brown biscuit, well earned, for Poor Tom. Since life's but a span, to improve every inch, Let the tongue from the heart never trip, And, though poverty's gripe the best cable may pinch, Never once let the sheet-anchor slip; And, as to fine stories, to answer fine ends, 'Tis no matter who tells or who sings, The best little cherub a mortal befriends Is a conscience that guilt never stings; So when, like poor Davy, wash'd orT from the deck, My old hulk I at last must pack from, With the best birth in view, let me spring from the wreck, And the Cape of Good Hope for Tom. BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The main-mast by the board, My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love well stor'd, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring wind, the raging sea, In hopes, on shore, to be once more Safe moored with thee. Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below NAVAL SONGS. 159 Shall my signal be ;o think on thee^ And this -shall be my song: Blow high, blow low, &c. And on that night, when all the crew The memory of their former lives, O'er flowing cans of flip, renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think of thee, And as the ship rolls through the sea The burthen of my song shall be, Blow high, Blow low, &c. NAUTICAL PHILOSOPHY. One night came on a, hurricane — The sea was mountains rolling — When Barney Buntline turned his quid, And cried to Billy Bowline — " There's a sou'-wester coming Billy, Don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pities them Unhappy folks on shore now. Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns, What dangers they are all in — At night lie quaking in their beds, For fear the roof will fall in — Poor creatures, how they envies us, And wishes, I've a notion, For our good luck in such a storm, To be upon the ocean. Now, as to them that's out all day On business from their houses, And late at night are walking home, To cheer their babes and spouses, While you and I, upon the deck, Are comfortably lying, 160 NAVAL SONGS. My eyes! what tiles and chimney tops, About their their heads are flying! Bill, you and I, have often heard, How folks are ruined and undone, By overturns in carriages, By thieves and fires in London — We've heard what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors, Then Billy let's bless Provinence That you and I are sailors." THE MARINER'S GRAVE. I remember the night was stormy and wet, And dismally dash'd the dark wave, While the rain and the sleet Cold and heavily beat On the mariner's new-dug grave. I remember 'twas down in a darksome dale, And near to a dreary cave, Where the wild winds wail Round the wanderer pale, That I saw the Mariner's grave. I remember how slowly the bearers trod, And how sad was the look they gave, As they rested their load, Near its last abode, And gazed on the Mariner's grave. I remember no sound did the silence break, As the corpse to the earth they gave, Save the night-bird's shriek, And the coffin's creak As it sunk in the Mariner's grave. I remember a tear that slowly slid Down the cheek of a messmate brave, NAVAL SONGS. 161 It fell on the lid, And soon was hid, For clos'd was the Mariner's grave. Now o'er his lone bed the briar creeps, And the wild flow'rs mournfully wave, And the willow weeps, And the moon-beam sleeps, On the Mariner's silent grave. NED BOLTON. A jolly comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea; When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass be! And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in shame, If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge thy name! Up, up, my lads! lis memory? we'll give it with a cheer — Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake pri- vateer! Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw nor speck: Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter- deck; He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian dame, And Spanish planters crossed themselves at whisper of his name; But now, Jamaica girls may weep — rich Dons securely smile — His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch Indian isle! 162 NAVAL SONGS. 'S blood! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mother wave — The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a grave! With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane, No need would he have had to cruise in tropic climes again; But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang on shore, And Fortune cried, God speed! at last, and welcomed Ned no more. 'Twas off the coast of Mexico — the tale is bitter brief, The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef — Upon a cutting coral-reef, scarce a good league from land, But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged up- on the strand; His boats were lost before Cape Horn, and, with an old canoe, Even had he numbered ten for one, what could Ned Bolton do? Six days and nights the vessel lay upon the coral-reef, Nor favoring gale, nor friendly flag brought prospect of relief; For a land breeze, the wild one prayed, who never prayed before, And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip and swore, The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not venture near, Too well they knew the me: tie of the daring privateer! A calm! a calm! a hopeless calm! the red sun burning high, Glared blisteringly and wearily in a transparent sky; NAVAL SONGS. 163 The grog went round the gasping crew: and loudly rose the song, The only pastime at an hour when rest seemed far too long, So boisterously they took their rouse upon the crowded deck — They looked like men who had escaped, not feared, a sudden wreck. Up sprung the breeze the seventh day — away! away! to sea Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters free; Their battle-flag these rovers bold then hoisted topmast high, And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying cry. " One last broadside!" Ned Bolton cried — deep boom- ed the cannon's roar, And echo's hollow growl returned an answer from the shore. The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tumul- tuous cheer, Ceased not, so long as ocean spared the shattered pri- vateer, I saw her — I— she shot by me like lightning, in the gale, * We strove to save, we tacked, and fast we slackened all our sail — I knew the wave of Ned's right hand — farewell! you strive in vain! And he, nor one of his ship's crew, e'er entered port again. 164 NAVAL SONGS. LAMENT FOR LONG TOM.— by brainard. Thy cruise is over now Thou art anchored by the shore, And never more shak thou Hear the storm around the roar; Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass, Now around thee sports the whale. And the porpoise snuffs the gale, And the night winds make their wail, As they pass. The sea-grass round thy bier Shall bend beneath the tide, Nor tell the breakers near, Where thy manly limbs abide; But the granite rock thy tomb shall be. Though the edges of thy grave Are the combings of the wave — Yet unheeded they shall rave Over thee. At the calling of all hands, When the judgment signals spread — When the islands, and the lands, And the seas give up their dead, And the south and the north shall come. When the sinner is betrayed, And the just man is afraid, Then may Heaven be thy aid, Poor Tom. • ***®^pv***" MILITARY SONGS. I SEE THEM ON THEIR WINDING WAY, J see them on their winding way, About their ranks the moonbeams play; Their lofty deeds, and daring high, Blend with the notes of victory; . And waving arms, and banners bright, Are glancing in the mellow light. They're lost pnd gone — the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, And fainter, fainter, fainter still, The march is rising o'er^he hill. I see them, &c. Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn — they come, they come, Through rocky pass o'er wooded steep, In long and glittering files they sweep; And nearer, nearer, yet more near, Their soften'd chorus meets the ear. Forth, forth, and meet them on their way 3 The trampling hoofs brook no delay; With thrilling fife, and pealing drum, And clashing horn — they come, they come. HOW STANDS THE GLASS. How stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys, How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound. 166 MILITARY SONGS. The trumpets sound, The colors they are flying, boys; To fight, kill or wound; May vve still be found, Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground. Why soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why, Whose business 'tis to die — What — sighing? fie! Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys; 'Tis he, you, or I, Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys; And scorn to fly. 5 Tis but in vain, ( (I mean not to upbraid you, boys,) 'Tis but in vain, For soldiers to complain; Should next campaign Send us to Him who made us, boys, We are free from pain; But if we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cure all again. THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU. Adieu, adieu, my only life, My honor calls me from thee, Remember thou'rt a soldier's wife, Those tears but ill become thee; What though by duty I am call'd, Where thundering cannon's rattle, Where valor's self might stand appall'd, *Where valor's self might stand appall'd, MILITARY SONGS. 167 When on the wings of thy dear love, To Heaven above Thy fervent orisons are flown, The fencer pray'r thou puttest up there, Shall call a guardian angel down, Shall call a guardian angel down, To watch me in the battle. My safety thy fair truth shall be, As sword and buckler serving, My life shall be more dear to me, Because of thy preserving: Let peril come, let horror threat, Let thundering cannon's rattle, I fearless seek the conflict's heat; Assured when on the wings of love, To Heav'n above, &c. Enough, with that benignant smile Some kindred god inspired thee, Who saw thy bosom void of guile, Who wonder 'd, and admired thee: I go assured, my life, adieu, Though thundering cannons rattle, Though murdering carnage stalk in view When on the wings of thy true love, To Heav'n above, &c. THE DRUM. Come, each gallant lad, Who for pleasure quits care; To the drum, drum, drum, &c. To the drum-head with spirit repair. Each recruiter takes his glass, And each young soldier with his lass, While the drum beats tattoo, while, &c. Retires the sweet night to pass. 168 MILITARY SONGS. Each night gaily lads — Thus we'll merrily waste, Till the drum, drum, drum', &c. Tilf the drum tells us 'tis past. Picquet arms at dawn now shine, • And each drum ruffles down the line, Now the drums beat reveille, now, &c. Saluting the day divine. But hark! yonder shouts — See the standard now alarms, Now the drum, drum, drum, &c. Now the drum beats loudly to arms. Kill'd and wounded, how they lie! Helter, skelter, see they fly, Now the drum beats retreat, now, &c. We'll fire a feu-de-joie. THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. The moon was beaming silver bright, The eye no cloud could view; Her ioveVs step in silent night, Well pleas'd, the damsel knew, At midnight hour, Beneath the tov, 3r, He murmur'd soft, " Oh, nothing fearmg, With your own true Soldier fly, And his faithful heart be cheering; List! -ear, tis I; List! list, Lst, love; list! dear tis I; With thine own true Soldier fly." Then whisper'd Love, " Oh, maiden fair, Ire morning shed its ray* Thy lover calls; — all peril dare, And haste to horse aw r ay! In time of need, Yon gallant steed, MILITARY SONGS, 169 That champs the rein, delay reproving, Shall each peril bear thee by, With its master's charmer roving; List! dear, 'tis I; List! list, list, love; list! dear, tis I; With thine own true Soldier fly." And now the gallant Soldier's Bride, She's fled her home afar, And chance, or joy, or woe betide, • She'll brave with him the war! And bless the hour, When 'neath the tow'r, He whisper'd soft, " Oh, nothing fearing, With thine own true Soldier fly, And his faithful heart be cheering: List! dear, 'tis I; List! list, list, love; list! dear, 'tis I; With thine own true Soldier fly." THE KNIGHT ERRANT. > It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine; " And grant, Immortal Queen of Heaven," was still the soldier's prayer, " That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair." His oath of honor on the shrine he graved it with his sword, And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his lord; Where faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air, — " Be honor 'd aye the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair." 8 170 MILITARY SONGS. They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his liege lord said, *< The heart that has for honor beat, by bliss must be repaid; — My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair." And then they bound the holy knot before St. Mary's shrine, That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel there, Cried, " Honor'd be the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair." THE MINSTREL BOY. Tune — ' The Moreen.' The Minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, " And his wild harp slung behind him. *' Land of song," said the warrior bard, " Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee." The minstrel fell! but the foemen's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery." MILITARY SOiVGS. 171 WILLIAM THE BRAVE. By the side of yon streamlet there grows a green wil- low That bends to its surface and kisses each wave; Beneath whose dark shade, with the sod for his pillow, In peace rests the spirit of William the brave. There, there o'er his grave does no stone tell his story, No monument glitters in splendid array, Oh! no — on the heart is recorded his glory, On love's holy altar 'twill never decay. There, lonely at evening, when day is declining, Sweet Mary, in sorrow, oft hies to his grave; And moistens the flowers, in beauty entwining, With tears to the memory of William the brave. 'Tis the test of affection, far sweeter appearing, Than all the gay glitter that custom e'er gave; Ah Heaven! 'tis a tribute, and doubly endearing When shed by fond love, o'er the tomb of the brave. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce — for the night cloud had low- er'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 172 MILITARY SONGS. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn> And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE LAST BUGLE. Hark! the muffled drum sounds the last march of tht brave, The soldier retreats to his quarters, the grave, Under death, whom he owns his commander-in-chief, No more he'll turn out with the ready relief; But in spite of death's terrors or hostile alarms, When he hears the last bugle he'll stand to his arms. Farewell brother soldiers, in peace may you rest, And light lie the turf on each veteran breast, Until that review, when the souls of the brave, Shall behold the chief ensign, fair mercy's flag wave: Then freed from death's terrors and hostile alarms, When we hear the last bugle we'll stand to our arms. REST! WARRIOR, REST! He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight; He comes thro' the storm and the darkness of night, MILITARY SONGS. 173 For rest and for refuge now fain to implore, The warrior bends low at the cottager's door, Pale, pale is his cheek, there's a gash on his brow, His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye, Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die. Rest! warrior, rest! Sunk in silence and sleep in the cottager's bed, Oblivion shall visit the war- weary head; Perchance he may dream, but the vision shall tell Of his lady-love's bower, and her latest farewell. Oft his thoughts on the pinions of fancy shall roam, And in slumber revisit his love and his home, Where the eyes of affection with tenderness gleam, Ah! who would awake from so blissful a dream? Rest! warrior, rest! THOUGH I AM NOW A VERY LITTLE LAD. Tune—* The White Cockade.' Though I am now a very little lad, And fighting men cannot be had; For want of a better I may do, To follow the boys with a rat tat too; I may seem tender, yet I'm tough, And though not much of me, I'm right good stuff; Of this I'll boast, say more who can, I never was afraid to face my man. I'm a chickabiddy see, Take me now now now, A merry little he, For your row dow dow, Brown Bess I'll knock about, oh! that's my joj r , With a knapsack on my back like a roving boy. In my tartan plaid a young soldier view, My philibeg, and dirk, and bonnet blue; 174 MILITARY SONGS. Give the word and I'll march where you command, Noble serjeant, with a shilling then strike my hand. My captain when he takes his glass, May like to toy with a pretty lass, For such a one I've a roguish eye, He'll never want a girl when I am by. For a chickabiddy, &c. Though a barber has never yet mowed my chin, With my great broad svvord I long to begin; Cut, slash, ram, dam, oh! glorious fun; For a gun pip-pop, change my little pop gun, The foes should run like geese in flocks; Even Turks should fly like Turkey cocks: Wherever quartered I shall be, Oh! zounds! how I'll kiss my landlady. I'm a chickabiddy, &c. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard nor a funeral rio-e, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell sho*, O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The turf with our bay'nets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And our lanterns dimly burning. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, xjut we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead! And we bitterly thought on the morrow. No useless coffin confin'd his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. MILITARY SONGS. 175 We thought as we heap'd the narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sudenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and glory, We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. SOLDIER'S TEAR. Upon the hill he turn'd, to take a last fond look f%t the valley, and the village-church, and the cottage by the brook; He listen'd to the sounds so familiar to his ear, And the soldier lean'd upon his sword, and wiped away a tear. Beside that cottage porch, a girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf, which flutter'd in the breeze ; She breath'd a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear; But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wiped away a tear. He turn'd and left the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak, For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek! 176 MILITARY SONGS. Go watch the foremost ranks in danger's dark career, Be sure the hand most daring there, has wiped away a tear. THE SOLDIER KNOWS THAT EVERY BALL. The soldier knows that every ball A certain billet bears, And whether doomed to rise or fall, Dishonor's all he fears. To serve his country is his plan, Unavved or undismayed; He fights her battles like a man, And by her thanks he's paid. To foreign climes he cheerly goes, By duty only driven; And if he fall, his country knows For whom the blow was given. Recorded on the front of day, The warrior's deeds appear; For him the poet breathes his lay, The virgin sheds a tear. THE DASHING WHITE SERJEANT. If I had a beau For a soldier who'd go, Do you think I'd say no? No, not I! When his red coat I saw, Not a sigh would it draw, But give him he eclat for his bravery! If an army of Amazons e'er came in play, As a dashing white serjeant I'd march away! March away, &c. MILITARY SONGS. 177 When my soldier was gone, D'ye think I'd take on; Sit moping forlorn? No, not I; His fame my concern, How my bosom would burn, When I saw him return, crown'd with victory. If an army, &c. HOW HAPPY'S THE SOLDIER. How nappy's the soldier that lives on his pay, And spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day; He fears neither justices', warrants, or bums, But rattles away with the roll of his drums, With his row de dow, &c. He cares not a marvedi how the world goes: His country finds quarters, and money, and clothes; He laughs at all sorrow, whenever it comes, And rattles away with the roll of his drums. With his row de dow, &c. The drum is his pleasure, his joy, and delight, It leads him to pleasure as well as to fight; There's never a girl, though ever so glum, But packs up her tatters and follows the drum. With his row de dow, &c THE OLD SOLDIER'S TEAR. They have donn'd their scarlet garb, They have ta'en the soldier's vest; Bright plumes wave o'er each head, Bright stars are on each breast, And the warrior's heart beats quick and high. At the sound of the battle cheer; But still as he looks on his gallant boys, He wipes awav a tear. 8* 178 MILITARY SONGS. They are foremost on the breach, They are first in danger's track, There are no braver spirits there To drive the foemen back; They sink in glory's proud embrace, But the voice of their dying cheer, Comes forth with a shock on the soldier's heart, And he wipes away a tear. He has past his native hill, He is on his native plain, And the young who went with him away, Are come not home again; But the mother's whisper of her boys, Will break upon his ear, And the soldier sighs for his bravest now, And wipes away a tear. A SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE. Whate'er my fate, where'er I roam, By sorrow still oppress'd, I'll ne'er forget the peaceful home, That gave a wand'rer rest. Then ever rove life's sunny banks By sweetest flow'rets strew'd, Still may you claim a soldier's thanks, A soldier's gratitude. The tender sigh, the balmy tear, That meek-ey'd pity gave, My last expiring hour shall cheer, And bless the wand'rer's grave. Then ever rove life's sunny banks, By sweetest flow'rets strew'd, Still may you claim a soldier's thanks, A soldier's gratitude. MILITARY SONGS. 179 THE ONSET. Sound an alarm! the foe is come! I hear the tramp, — the neigh, — the hum, The cry, and the blow of his daring drum — Huzzah! Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone, What! shall we shake at a foe unknown? Huzzah! — Huzzah! Have we not sinews as strong as they? Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way? Have we not God on. our side to-day? Huzzah' Look! They are staggered on yon black heath: Steady awhile and hold your breath! Now is your time, men,— Down like Death! Huzzah ! — Huzzah! Stand by each other, and front your foes! Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows! Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose! Huzzah! Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray! Blow; till their brazen throats give way! Sound to the battle! Sound I say! Huzzah ! — Huzzah ! THE TROUBADOUR. Glowing with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour, that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good morrow; " My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my true-love's bower; 180 MILITARY SONGS. Gaily for love and fame to fight Befits the gallant Troubadour. " And while he march 'd, with helm on head And harp in hand, the descant rung; As faithful to his favorite maid, The minstrel's burden still he sung; " My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour." E'en when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion's sweep, And still was heard the warrior lay: "My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." Alas! upon the bloody field, He fell beneath thefoeman's glaive; But still reclining on his shield, Expiring, sung the exulting stave; " My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight Becomes the valiant Troubadour." DUETS, GLEES, &c. AWAY! AWAY!— a trio. Away! away! We've crowned the day, The hounds are» waiting for their prey; The huntsman's call Invites ye all, Come in boys while ye may. The jolly horn, The rosy morn, With harmony of deep mouth'd hounds; These — these my boys, Are sportsmen's joys, Our pleasure knows no bounds. THE MESSENGER BIRD.— a duet Thou art come from the spirit's land, thou bird; Thou art come from the spirit's land, Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band. We know that the bowers are green and fair, In the light of that summer shore, And we know that the friends we've lost are there, They are there, and they weep no more. But tell us thou bird of the solemn strain, Can those who have lov'd forget? We call and they answer not again, Oh! say do they love us yet? 182 DUETS, GLEES, &C. We call them far through the silent night, And they speak not from oave nor hill, We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, But, oh! say, do they love there still? SEE OUR OARS.— a glee. See our oars with feather'd spray, Sparkle in the beam of day, In our little bark we glide, Swiftly o'er the silent tide; From yonder lone and rocky shore, The warrior hermit to restore; And sweet the morning breezes blow, While thus in measured time we row. SLEEP GENTLE LADY.— a serenade. Sleep, gentle lady, flowers are closing, The very winds and waves reposing, O, let our soft and soothing numbers Wrap thee in sweeter, softer slumbers! Peace be around thee, lady bright, Sleep while we sing — good night, good night! LOVE, MY MARY.— a duet. Love, my Mary, dwells with thee, On thy cheek his bed I see; No, that cheek is pale with care, Love can find no roses there; No, no, no, no, no, no, No roses there, no, no. 'Tis not on the cheek of rose, Love can find the best repose; In my heart his home thou'U see, There he lives, and lives for thee. DUETS, GLEES, &.C. 183 Love, my Mary, ne'er can roam, While he makes that eye his home, No, the eye with sorrow dim, Ne'er can be a home for him; Ne'er can be, no, no, no, A home for him, no, no. Yet 'tis not in beaming eyes, Love forever warmest lies; In my heart his home thou'lt see; There he lives, and lives for thee. SWEET THE HOUR.— a chorus. Sweet the hou?* when freed from labor, Lads and lasses thus convene; To the merry pipe and tabor, Dancing gaily on the green, Sweet the hour, &c. Nymphs with all their native graces, Swain3 with every charm to win; Sprightly steps and smiling faces, Tell of happy hearts within. Sweet the hour, &c. Blest with plenty, here the Farmer, Toils for those he loves alone; While some pretty smiling charmer, Like the land is all his own. Sweet the hour, &c. Tho' a tear for prospects blighted, May at times unbidden flow, Yet the heart will bound delighted, Where such kindred bosoms glow. Sweet the hour, &e. 184 DUETS, GLEES, &C. CROWS IN A CORN-FIELD.— a glee. See yonder corn-field, Where waves the rip'ning grain, The feather'd race alluring, Who flock'd the prize to gain. Now careless hopping, flying, A young crow light and gay So careless, light and gay he hops, So careless, light and gay. While cautious peeping, prying, Two old crows, sage and gray r A man and gun espying, With timely warning say, * DonH go there!' { Why not?' 1 You'll be shot!' ' I don't care!' We tread the maze, Like fays we tread the maze On midsummer's green, And where we have been The prints of our dance in morn shall be seen. Tarah! tarah! Now all that love daylight are sleeping, Of earth, of the a^r, of the sea; But brighter to us is the moonlight, And sweeter the dance on the lea. Those stars that are twinkling above us, They surely for some one must shine; As none else will claim them, their brightness Be lit up for love and for wine. And then, too, they call those bright twinklers The Dragon, the Dog, and the Bear, While all the same time, I could swear it, They're souls of the brave and the fair. DUETS, GLEES, &C. 191 HERE'S A HEALTH TO ALL GOOD LASSES. Here's a health to all good lasses, Pledge it merrily, fill your glasses, Let the bumper toast go round; May they live a life of pleasure, Without mixture without measure, For with them true joys are found. THE FAIRIES' SONG.— a trio. "Within this shelter'd mossy dell, From mortal ken, we fairies dwell, When the garish eye of day Beams abroad its golden ray. Light dancing on the daisied ground, Our wanton rings we trace around, When the moon, with paly light, Gems the modest brow of night. Around the mushroon's tawny breast, 'Tis there we hold our elfin feast; Honey 'd stores of saffron hue, Acorn cups of nectar'd dew. O sweetly thus our moments fly, Till soon the rosy dawn we spy; Then to taste the balmy sleep In purple bells we softly creep. THE HUNTERS' CHORUS. We roam thro' the forest and over the mountain, No joys of the court or the banquet like this; And then sunset glowing by some leafy-fountain, To crown our red goblet with young beauty's kiss. 192 DUETS, GI/EES, &C. Then end our bright evening with dance and with sing- g in g> Till night spreads her mantle o'er vale and o'er wood; Thro' rock and thro' forest our horns gaily ringing, Farewell to the day star that sets in the flood. Follow hark, &c. Or should icy winter be hailing or snowing, Or summer look red thro' the yellow hair'd corn; Or breezes are flowing or wild winds are blowing, Still rings thro' the forest the huntsman's gay horn. Then end our bright evening with dance and with sing- Till night spreads her mantle o'er vale and o'er wood; Thro' rock and thro' forest our horns gaily ringing, Farewell to the day-star that sets in the flood. Follow hark, &c. CHAIRS TO MEND.— a round. . Chairs to mend! old chairs to mend! Rush or cane bottom, old chairs to mend! New mackerel! new mackerel! Old rags! any old rags! Take money for your old rags! Any hare skins, or rabbit skins. BACCHANALIAN SONGS. THE TRUE HEARTED FELLOW. With my pipe in one hand, and my jug in the other I drink to my neighbors and friend, All my cares in a whiff of tobacco I smother, For life, I know, shortly must end; And while Ceres, most kindly, refills my brown jug, With good liquor I'll make myself mellow, In an old wicker chair I'll seat myself snug, Like a jolly and true hearted fellow. I'll ne'er trouble my head with the cares of the nation, I've enough of my own for to mind, For the cares of this life are but grief and vexation, To death we must all be consign 'd; Then I'll laugh, drink, and smoke, and leave nothing to pay, But drop like a pear that is mellow, And when cold in my coffin, I'll leave them to say He's gone, what a hearty good fellow! THE GLASSES SPARKLE ON THE BOARD. The glasses sparkle on the board, The wine is ruby bright, The reign of pleasure is restored, Of ease and fond delight. The day is gone, the night's our own, Then let us feast the soul; If any care or pain remain, Why drown it in the bowl. 9 194 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. This world they saiy, is a world of woe, But that I do deny; Can sorrow from the goblet flow? Or pain from beauty's eye? The wise are fools with all their rules, When they would joys control: If life's a pain, I say again, Let's drown it in the bowl. That time flies fast, the poet sings; Then surely it is wise, In rosy vvineto dip his wings, And seize him as he flies. This night is ours; then strew with flowers The moments as they roll: If any care or pain remain, Why drown it in the bowl. OF ALL THE GUESTS. Or all the guests a landlord sees Within Tolefc>'s walls, 'Give me a fat Friar who sits at his ease, And stoutly about him calls, With his head so bald, and his gown so black, And his nose so red, and his beads — good lack! Yet only set by him a bottle of sack! Tney smile at each other, Both bottle and brother; He kisses the glass with a hearty smack, Good lack! good lack! 'Tother bottle of sack, Yes, Father, says I — and it's off in a crack. The Doctor can swallow a poor man's fees; The soldier can swallow a ball; The Lawyer, I'll venture whatever you please. Will swallow the devil and all. BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 195 But of all who at swallowing have a good nack, I never had yet such a friend to my back, As a Friar who swallows a bottle of sack, Then call for some more, While I set up a score, 'Tother bottle of sack, Good lack! good lack! Yes, father, &c. A CHAPTER OF GOOD THINGS. A glass is good and a lass is good, And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; The world it is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellovys together, A bottle it is a very good thing, With a good deal of very good wine in it; A song is good, when a body can sing, And to finish, we must begin it, A table is good, when spread with good cheer, And good company sitting round it; When a good way off, we are not very near, And for sorrow the devil confound it. A glass is good, &c. A friend is good, when you're out of good luck, For that's a good time to try him; For a justice good, the haunch of a buck, With such a good present you buy him, A fine old woman is good when she's dead, A rogue's very good for good hanging; A fool is good by the nose to be led, And my good song deserves a good banging. A glass is good, &c. 196 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. THE BROWN JUG. Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale,) Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old sou', As e'er drank a bottle or fathom'd a bowi, In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flower- woven arbor as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrows away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had received it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; — So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale. THE GOBLET OF FRIENDSHIP. Come, pass round the glass, and let joy for a time With jollity reign, and enliven our soi -Is; For pleasure's a treasure too rich and su! lime To be exiled so soon from our sparkling bowls; Then raise high your voices, while memment sings, For here we're assembled to taste delight; And though Time is preparing to take to his wings, Let Wit well be sharpened to clip them to-night. If you ask me to toast you, I'll fill to the brim, ^ I'll ne'er prove a flincher while mirth is the cause, And he that hangs back, this night's lustre to dim, Is unworthv our free constitution, and lews; + BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 197 With the juice 01 the grape I will now fill my cup, Just to show you how well I can drink and sing; And fie on the man who would scorn now to sup From the goblet of friendship ere Time takes wing. HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN. Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Likewise, to the widow of fifty; Here's to the bold and extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty, Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maiden whose dimples we prize, Likewise to her that has none, sir, Here's to the maid with a pair of black eyes, And here's to her that's but one, sir. Let the toast pass, &c Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, And to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And here's to the girl that is merry. Let the toast pass, &c. Let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, And e'en let us toast them together. Let the toast pass, &c. THE JOYS OF THE TABLE. How bright are the joys of the table, I mean when the cloth is removed; 198 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. Our hearts are fast held by a cable, While round the decanter is shoved, The ladies all rise to retire, We stand up and look very grave, A bumper, then draw round the fire, Determined like souls to behave. My servant he knows I'm a top^r, Clean glasses, of wine a recruit, He brings in a six gallon cooper And places it close at my foot; I gingerly take up a bottle, The saw -dust I puff from his coat, The cork out it sings in the throttle, But sweeter than Mars is his note. What gentleman coffee now chooses, The compliment comes from the fair, No gentleman coffee refuses, But not a man stirs from his chair. Though Frenchmen may do so, I bear it, 'Tis brutish politeness I think; While Monsieur we pay for his claret, He never shall teach us to drink. Gay Hebe now shows in Apollo, A struggler 'twixt claret and wit, For Bacchus insists he shall swallow Six bumpers before he can sit; Ye fair, why so ill should we treat you, To part ere the bottle is won, At supper Apollo will meet you, And show you vhat Bacchus has done. FRIEND OF MY SOUL. Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 'Twill chase the pensive tear; BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 199 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere, Like her delusive beam 'Twill steal away thy mind; But, like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind. Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade* These flowers were culled at noon; Like woman's love the rose will fade, But, oh! not half so soon. But though the flower's decayed, It's fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betrayed, The heart can bloom no more. THE CHARMS OF LIFE. I love to see the flowing bowl With ruby lustre crown 'd; I love to see the flow of soul, And care in goblet drown'd; Oh tell me not of beauty's power, Of woman's soft control, But, give me, gods, the social hour, The transports of the bowl, The song, the jest, the laugh, the glee, Compose the charms of life for me. If wine can yield one's care relief, Then let its current flow; If sparkling cup can banish grief, Then bask we in their glow. The sand of life too soon runs out, And joy is but a flower; Be gay and push the bowl about, Taste wine, and prove its power. The song, &c. 200 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. PETER AND POULE. Our vicar still preaches, that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl; That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black jack, And the seven deadly sins in a noggin of sack; Yet, whoop, Barnaby, off with thy liquor, Drink, hip! see it out, and a fig for the vicar. Our vicar, he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip; Swears that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye, Yet, whoop for the sack, and kiss Gillian, the quaker, Till she blooms like a rose, and a fig for the vicar. Our vicar thus preaches, and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are his placket and pot; And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, Who infringe the domains of our good mother church, Yet, whoop, bully boys, and off with your liquor, Sweet Margery's the word! and a fig for the vicar. THE JOYS OF DRINKING. Poor Joe, the miller, loved good ale, And oft would spend his hob, — His wife, poor soul, would oft times rail, And swear she'd break his n~-b; They'd fight and quarrel — make it up, Each vow'd they'd look it over, They'd kiss and sup, and take their cup, And then to bed in clover. Tol de rol, &c. He ne'er would listen to advice, That his poor wife did give him, Nor nothing e'er would him suffice, Like to the joys of drinking; BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 201 One night he brought home pots of ale, And made his wife well fuddled, They kiss'd and hugged — no spouse did rail, But went to bed and cuddled, Tol de rol, &c. And when the rosy morn appeared, They went to work together, And laughed and joked till it came night, With hearts as light as feather; They then would both together sup; Together they would muddle, And, drunk as sows, they'd leave their cup, And reel to bed and cuddle. Tol de rol, &c. FRIEND AND PITCHER. The wealthy fool, with gold in store, Will still desire to grow richer; Give me but these, I ask no more, My charming girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, my girl so fair, With such, what mortal can be richer? Give me but these, a fig for care, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. From morning sun I'd never grieve, To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that when I came home at eve, I might enjoy my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c. Though fortune ever shuns my door, I know not what can thus bewitch her, With all my heart can I be poor, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c. 9* 202 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. CROOS-KEEN LAWN. Let the farmer praise his grounds, As the huntsman does his hounds And the shepherd his sweet-scented lawn, While I more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day With my smiling little croos-keen lawn, lawn, lawn, Oh, my smiling little croos-keen lawn. Leante ruma croos-keen Sleante gar ma voor meh neen Argus gramachree ma cooleen ban, ban, ban, Argus gramachree ma cooleen ban. In court with manly grace, Should Sir Toby plead his case, And the merits of his cause make known Without his cheerful glass He'd be stu F id as an ass, So he takes a little croos-keen lawn. Leante ruma, &c Then fill your glasses high, Let's not part with lips so dry, Though the lark should proclaim it dawn; But if we can't remain, May we shortly meet again, To fill another croos-keen lawn. Leante ruma, &c. And when grim death appears, After few but nappy years. And tells me my glass it is run, I'll say, begone you slave. For great Bacchus gives me lave Just to fill another croos-keen lawn. Leante ruma, &c BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 203 THEN GLASS AFTER GLASS LET US PURSUE, Wine, wine is alone the brisk fountain of mirth, Whence jollity springs, and contentment has birth, What mortals so happy as we who combine, And fix our delight in the juice of the vine? No care interrupts when the bottle's in view, Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue. Our laws are our own, not enforced by the crown* And we stand to them fair, till we fairly fall down; At acts or repeals we disdain to repine, Nor grudge any tax, but the tax on our wine; To Caesar and Bacchus our tribute is due, Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue. His worship, so grave, here may revel and roar; The lawyer speak truth, who ne'er spoke so before; The parson here, stnpt of his priesthood's disguise; And Ohioe's scorned lover get drunk and grow wise; The husband may learn here to combat the shrew, So glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue. The chase of the bottle few accidents wait, We seldom break necks, though we oft crack a pate: If wars rise among us, they soon again cease, One bumper brings truce, and anothe; brings peace: 'Tis this way alone we life's evils subdue; Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue. THEN SLING THE FLOWING BOWL. Come, come, my jolly lads, The winds abaft; Brisk gales our sails shall crowd: — Come, bustle, bustle, bustle, boys, Haul the boat; The boatswain pipes aloud; 204 BACCHANALIAN SONGS. The ship's unmoored, All hands on board; The rising gale Fills every sail; The ship's well manned and stored. Then sling the flowing bowl — Fond hopes arise — The girls we prize, Shall bless each jovial soul: The can, boys, bring — We'll drink and sing, While foaming billows roll. Though to the Spanish coast We're bound to steer, Our rights we'll there maintain; Then bear a hand be steady, boys, Soon we'll see Old England once again. From shore to shore, While cannons roar, Our tars shall show The haughty foe, Britannia rules the main. Then sling, &c« PALE FACES, STAND BY. Pale faces, stand by, And our bright ones adore, We look like our wine, You worse than our score. Come, light pu your pimples, All art we oui shine; When the rosy god paints, Each streak is divine. Clean glasses are pencils, Old claret is oil; BACCHANALIAN SONGS. 205 He that sits for this picture, Must sit a good while. A GLASS OF GIN. Let am'rous bards in verse sublime, Sing Chloe's face, her shape, her skin; Ods bobs! [ envy not their rhyme If I can get a glass of gin. Derry down, &c. Hail, matchless liquor! but for thee, Who'd care for life a single pin; For troubles, as by magic, flee From those wjio love a glass of gin. Derry down, &c. If spouse, at home, in wordy war Strikes up the matrimonial din, No blows I use; 'tis better far To soothe her with a glass of gin. Derry down, &c. When keen misfortune's piercing dart Assails or stranger, friend or km, " A quartern ho!" I'll cheer his heart By giving him a glass of gin. Derry down, &c Did I but know his name aright Who first to use the stuff brought in; At morning, noon, and last at night, I'd toast him in a glass of gin. Derry down, &c. Oh! never, whilst my hand can lift The cordial nectar to my chin, May I be driven to a. shift To get a bumper glass of gin. Derry dov/n, &c. 206 BACCHANALIAN S0N3S. And may it on my tomb be told (I cannot think twould be a sin) Engraved at length in words of gold, The rogue he loved a g'-^ss of gin!!" Derry down, &c. THE LADIES' DRINKING SONG. Let topers drain the Sowing bowl, And tipsy get for me; I ne'er their orgies shall control, So I've a bowl of tea; And let them jest, and drink, and smoke, And stir up mirth and glee; I'll stir up (pleasure to provoke) A smoking cup of tea. When round the board the old and young With characters make free, The pivot of the prattling tongue, What oils so well as tea? By sorrow bid, should we take down Noyeau or ratifie, What can the fumes so fairly drown As qualifying tea? The type of life, its joys and cares, This beverage we see; The vital st lam the water wears, The bitters are the tea; West-India's produce are the sweets; And while they thus agree, In cream the happy medium meets That life corrects and tea. Then let the great and rich give way, Pomp, pride, G ©»*••• AMATORY SONGS. OH NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER. Oh no! we never mention her Her name is never heard; My lips are now forbid to speak That once familiar word. From sport to sport they hurry me, To banish my regret; And when they win a smile from me, They think that I forget. They bid me seek in change of scene, The charms that others see; But were [ in a foreign land, They'd find no change in me. 'T is true that I behold no more The valley where we met; I do not see the hawthorn tree — But how can I forget? They tell me she is happy now — The gayest of the gay; They hint that she forgets me; But I heed not what they say; Like me perhaps she struggles with Each feeling of regret; But if she loves as I have loved, She never can forget. IT IS NOT FOR THINE EYE OF BLUE, It is not for thine eye of blue, Nor for thy dark and glossy hair, 248 AMATORY SONGS. Nor for thy cheek of rosy hue, Nor for thy Lovely bosom fair, That I do love thee; for to me, There are far brighter charms in thee I But it is for thy gentle mind, Thy placid and expansive brow, Imagination, mild and kind, Which burns with clear, and fervid glow, That I do love thee; and I see, A thousand matchless charms in thee! THE KISS. The kiss, dear maid, thy lips have left, Shall never part from mine, Til! happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. The parting glance that fondly gleams, An equal love may see, The tear that from the eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. The kiss, &c. I ask no pledge to make me blest, In gazing when alone, Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own. By day or night, in weal or wo, That heart no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. The kiss, &c. MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT. Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale AMATORY SONGS. 249 Must be told by the moonlight alone, In the grove at the end of the vale; You mast promise to come, for I said I would show the night flowers their queen, Nay; turn not away thy sweet head, 'Tis the loveliest ever was seen Oh! meet, &c. Daylight may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the heartless, the free; But there's something about the moon's ray, That is sweeter to you and to me. Oh! remember be sure to be there, For though dearly a moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of your eyes. So meet, &c. AMELIA BIRD. Tune, — * Oh no! we never mention her. 9 OH^tyes, I love to mention her, I do upon my word! I'm only happy when I speak Of Miss Amelia Bird. It, in the fields near Primrose hill, One summer's day occurr'd, I saw and lov'd, and first did speak. To Miss Amelia Bird. I ask'd her if she in the fields Saw charms that others see; To which she archly did reply, * She saw no charms in me.' And thus the introduction o'er, All shyness was absurd, And soon I learnt the residence Of Miss Amelia Bird. 11* 250 AMATORY SONGS. Said she < I live at Hampstead now, Beyond the Load of Hay; My father keeps a good milch cow, And deals in curds and whey.' Said she, * I do prefer the whey — ■ Said I, 4 1 love the curd; But what than that much more I love, Is you, Amelia Bird/ She soon confess 'd a mutual flame And me a keepsake give; And I gave her a handkerchief Which cost me shillings five: A virtuous woman's worth a crown. As I have often heard; But worth, I think, a sovereign Is Miss Amelia Bird. Although I'm far from Hampstead now, And may be farther yet, And do not see her nor the cow, Yet how can I forget? But, perhaps, like me, she may be here^ And see me unobserv'd — * What ecstacy 't would be to me To see Amelia Bird. THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER. Where are you going my pretty maid? I'm going a milking, sir, she said; May I go with you, my pretty maid? It's just as you please, kind sir, she said. What is your father, my pretty maid? My father's a farmer, sir, she said; Then I will marry you, my pretty maid; It's not as you please, kind sir, she said. AMATORY SONGS. 251 What is your fortune, my pretty maid? My face is my fortune, sir, she said; Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid; Nobody ask'd you, sir, she said. GAILY THE TROUBADOUR. Gaily the Troubadour touch 'd his guitar, When he was hastening home from the war, Singing, ■ From Palestine, hither I come, Lady love, lady love, welcome me home.' She for the Troubadour, hopelessly wept, Sadly she thought of him, when others slept, Singing, * In search of thee, would I might roam, Troubadour, troubadour, come to thy home.' Hark! 't was the Troubadour, breathing her name, Under the battlement softly he came, Singing, ■ From Palestine, hither I come, Lady love, lady love, welcome me home.' ONE DEAR SMILE. Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sigh'd for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again Ev'ry wish I breath'd thee then, Oh! how blissful life would be! Hopes that now beguiling leave me, Joys that lie in slumber cold — All would wake couldst. thou but give me One dear smile, like those of old. Oh! there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was ev'ry ardent vow, Never yet did Heav'n allow Love so warm, so wild to last. 252 AMATORY SONGS. Not e'en hope could now deceive rae- Life itself looks dark and cold; Oh! thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old. BLUE EYED MARY. Come, tell me, blue-eyed stranger, Say, whither dost thou roam? O'er this wide world a ranger, Hast thou no friends or home, 1 They call me blue-eyed Mary, When friends and fortune smiled; But ah! how fortunes vary, I now am sorrow's child.' Come here, I'll buy thy flowers, And ease thy hapless lot, Still wet with vernal showers, I'll buy, forget me not. • Kind sir, then take these posies, They're fading like my youth, But never, like these roses, Shall wither Mary's truth.' Look up, thou poor forsaken, I'll give thee house and home, And if I'm not mistaken, Thou'lt never wish to roam. * Once more I'm happy Mary, Once more has fortune smiled; Who ne'er from virtue vary, May yet be fortune's child.* AMATORY SONGS. 253 OH! THINK NOT I AM FALSE. Oh! think not I am false as air, Which perhaps a moment changes; Oh! think not [ love dark or fair, Just as my fancy ranges. For the love which in my bosom glows, I swear can wander never; Within my heart thy image grows, And there shall grow forever. Oh! think not I am idly caught, By ev'ry passing beauty; Oh! think not. I can e'er be taught, To swerve, love, from my duty. Thy beauteous smiles have won my heart, I adore thee, though we sever; I swear, dear girl, although apart, That I will love thee ever. IS THERE A HEART. Is there a heart that never loved, Or felt soft woman's sigh? Is there a man can mark unmov'd Dear woman's tearful eye? Oh! bear him to some distant shore Or solitary cell, Where nought but savage monsters roar, Where love ne'er deign'd to dwell. For there's a charm in woman's eye, A language in her tear; A spell in every sacred sigh, To man, to virtue dear; And he who can resist her smiles, With brutes alone should live, Nor taste that joy which care beguiles, That joy her virtues give. £54 AMATORY SOxNGS. THE MOUNTAIN MAID. The mountain maid from her bower has hied, And sped to the glassy river's side, Where the radiant moon shone clear and bright, And the willows wav'd in the silver light. On a mossy bank lay a shepherd swain, He woke his pipe to a tuneful strain, And so blithely gay were the notes he play'd, That he charm'd the ear of the Mountain Maid. She stopp'd w T ith timid fear oppressed, While a soft sigh, swells her gentle breast, He caught her glance, and mark'd her sigh, And triumph laugh'd in his sparkling eye. So softly sweet was his tuneful ditty, He charm'd her tender soul to pity, And so blithely gay were the notes he play'd, That he gain'd the heart of the Mountain Maid. DRINK TO ME ONLY. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soui doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sip, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent it back to me; AMATORY SONGS. 255 Since then it grows, and looks, and smells, Not of itself, but thee. FARE THEE WELL. Fare thee well, and if forever, Still forever fare thee well! Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee can my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee, Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again, Would that breast, by thee glanc'd over, Every inmost thought might show 7 , Then thou vvouldst at length discover 'T was not well to spurn it so. But 5 t is done, all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way against the will. Fare theer well, thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and bligthed, More than this, — I scarce can die. TO SIGH YET FEEL NO PAIN. To sigh yet feel no pain; To weep yet scarce no why; To sport an hour with beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; 256 AMATORY SONGS. This is love — careless love — Such as kindleth hearts that rove. To keep one sacred flame Through life unchill'd, unmov'd ; To love in win fry age the same That first in youth we lov'd ; To feel that we adore To such refin'd excess, That though the heart would break with more, We could not live with less ; This is love — faithful love, — Such as the saints might feel above ! SWISS MAID. Come haste thee, come haste thee, my bonny Swiss maid, Take thy cloak, and to church let's away ; The plighted love I claim so true, For true's my love, sincere to you, Then haste thee, come haste thee, my bonny Swiss maid, * Take thy cloak, and to church let's away. Am not I, am not I, then a happy Swiss maid ? Now bless'd with my own true love ; My shepherd swain to welcome home, And hail with joy each night's return, Am not I, am not I, then a happy Swiss maid, Now bless'd with my own true love ? Now at eve, now at eve, see the happy Swiss maid, In her cot with contentment and peace ; There's nought disturbs, devoid of care, Her rest is sweet, she knows no fear Then ' good night,' and * good night,' goes the happy Swiss maid, In her cot, to her slumbers in peace. AMATORY SONGS. 257 OH ! SAY NOT WOMAN'S LOVE. Oh ! say not woman's love is bought With vain and empty treasure ; Oh ! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love's flame, it wanders never ; Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves forever ! Oh ! say not woman's false as fair ; That like the bee she ranges ; Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes : Ah, no, the love that first can warm Will leave her bosom never : No second passion e'er can charm, She loves, and loves forever ! THE SUN THAT LIGHTS THE ROSES. Though dimpled cheeks may give the light, Where rival beauties blossom, Though balmy lips to love invite To extasy the bosom ; Yet sweeter far yon summer sky, Whose blushing tint discloses, Give me the lustre-beaming eye, The sun that lights the roses. The voice of love is soft and clear, Exciting fond emotion ; How sweet it sounds upon the ear, Like music on the ocean ; Yet dearer far to lover's sight, The eye that truth discloses, Surpassing with its splendor bright The sun that lights the roses. 258 AMATORY SO!S T GS. ROSE OF LOVE. Thou art mine, rose of love, thou art mine, In my bosom thou art plarTed forever ; There the best of affections shall around thee entwine, As the elm is embraced in th' embrace of the vine, Which is never relinquished, no — never. Rose of love, rose of love ! thou art mine. Thou art planted here, ne'er to decay ; From my heart nought thy beauties can sever ; And should tears, like bright dew-drops, at dawn of the day, Impearl thy sweet bloom, I will kiss them away, For thou never shalt know sorrow, no — never. Rose of love, rose of love ! thou art mine. HE LOVES, AND RIDES AWAY. At the Baron of Mowbray's gate was seen A page with a courser black ; There came out a knight of noble mien, And he leap'd on the courser's back ; His arms were bright, his heart was light, And he sung this merry lay, 1 How jollily lives a f a r young knight ! He loves, and rides away.' A ladv look'd over the castle wall, And she heard the knight thus sing ; This lady's tears began then to fall, And her hands she began to wring. 1 And did'st thou then thy true love plight, And was it but to betray Ah ! tarry a while my own dear knight ; In pity don't ride a v. ay.' The knight of her tears took no heed, While scornfui laughed his eye ; He gave the spur to h;s prancing steed — * Good bve sweet-heart, good-bye.' AMATORY SONGS. 259 And soon he vanish'd from her sight, While she was heard to say, "Ah ! ladies, beware of a fair young knight, He'll love, and he'll ride away.' CUPID'S VISIT. Love wand'ring though the rain, Came to my cottage door ; He ask'd but to remain Until the storm was o'er. His bow he laid aside ; He said his darts were gone ; And oft he deeply sighed. And wished to travel on. The moon at length grew bright ; The storms no longer blew ; He rose and bade good night, And with a smile withdrew, Next day my heart was sad, Nor could I e'er forget The mournful look he had When at the door we met. The smile at parting too, Had something sweet and kind ; And as the boy withdrew, His image stayed behind. And ever since that hour, When loud 's the wind and rain, I watch my cottage door, In hopes he'll come again. LOVE CUTS ME UP. Tune — 'Love was once a little boy.'' What a luckless wight am I — Heiofho ! heigho ! 260 AMATORY SONGS. All day long I pine and cry — Heigho ! heigho ! Once I plump and fat was grown, Now I'm nought but skin and bone — Love cuts me up and cms me down — Heigho ! heigho ! My inward man is sore decay 'd — Heigho ! heigho ! The spirit's by the flesh betray'd Heigho ! heigho ! I conceive — ah, verily, That I'm assailed most grievously ; And us'd by Ruth most ruthlessly — Heigho ! heigho ! My heart by Cupid 's fiercely smote — Heigho ! heigho ! And rent in twain like Joseph's coat — Heigho ! heigho ! Love has caught me in a snare, Wicked Ruth scorns my despair; Though fair herself, don't use me fair — Heigho ! heigho ! As young lambkins frisk and play — Heigho ! Heigho ! Ruth and I have toy'd all day — Heigho ! heigho ! She now disdains to cast one looi On me — alas ! it is no joke, My peace should be to pieces broke — Heigho ! heigho ! To joys of earth I'll bid adieu — Heigho ! heigho 1 Leave Ruth to find a swain more true ; Heigho ! heigho ! I'll seek some shady grove straightway, AMATORY SONGS. 261 And there alas ! and lack-a-day ! Beneath some pine I'll pine away — Heigho ! heigho ! THE GARLAND OF LOVE. How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain, And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove. And sweet is the breeze that blows o'er the mountain, But sweeter by far is the lad that I love. I'll weave a gay garland, a fresh blooming garland, With lillies and roses and sweet blooming posies, To give to the lad my heart ,my heart,tells me I love. It was down in the glade where sweet Larza gliding, In murmuring streams ripple through the dark grove, I own'd what I felt, all my passions confining, To cease the fond sigh for the lad that I love. Then I'll weave, &c. WILL YOU COME TO THE BOWER? Will you come to the bow'r I have shaded for you, Your bed shall be roses bespangled w T ith dew; Will you, will you, will you, will you, Come to the bow'r ? There under the bow'r on soft roses you lie, With a blush on your cheek but a smile in your eye, Will you, will you, &c. Smile my belov'd ? But the roses we press shall not rival your lip, Nor the dew be so sweet as the kisses we'll sip. Will you, will you, &c. Kiss me, my love? And 0! for the joys that are sweeter than dew, From languishing roses or kisses from you. Will you, will you, &c. Won't you my love ? 262 AMATORY SONGS. CHERRY-CHEEK PATTY. Down in yon village I live so snug, They call me Giles the ploughman's boy; Through woods and o'er stiles, as I trudge many miles, I whistle, I whistle, and whoop, gee woo, Jerry. My work being done, to the lawn there I fly, Where the lads at the lasses all look very sly; And I'ze deeply in love with a girl, it is true, And I know what I know, but I munna tell you But I'll whistle, I'll whistle, for of all the girls I e'er did see, 0, cherry-cheek Patty for me. Though the squire so great, so happy may'nt be As poor simple Giles the ploughman's boy ; No matters of state ever addle my pate, But I'll whistle, I'll whistle, and whoop, gee woo, Jerry. Now cherry-cheek Patty she lives in a vale, Whom I help'do'er the style with her milking pail; And Patty has a like notion for me, it is true, And I know what I know, but I munna tell you : But I'll whistle, &c. I'ze able and strong, and willing to work, And when the lark rises off tradges I; The cows up I call, and harness old Ball, I whistle, I whistle, and whoop, gee woo, Jerry. Then I'ze fifty good shillings, my luck has been such, And a lad's not be grinned at that's gotten so much; And when that I'm married to Patty so true, I know what I know, but munna tell you : But I'll whistle, &c. MORGIANA. Ah ! what is the bosom's commotion, In a sea of suspense while 'tis tost ! AMATORY SONGS. 263 While the heart in our passion's wild ocean Feels even hope's anchor is lost, Morgiana, thou art my dearest, For thee have I languished, and griev'd ! And when hope to my bosom was nearest, How oft has that hope been deceiv'd. Morgiana, my hope was deceiv'd. The storm of despair is blown over, No more by its vapor depress'd ; I laugh at the clouds of a lover, With the sunshine of joy in my breast. Love made by a parent my duty, To the wish of my heart now arrived I bend to the power of beauty, And ev'ry fond hope is reviv'd. Morgiana, my hope is reviv'd. ELIZA. The shadows of eve 'gan to steal o'er the plain, To Eliza my heart I confess'd, Love sanction'd the moment, she smil'd on my pain, On her lip a soft kiss I impress'd; I saw her warm cheek like heav'n's canopy glow, When Aurora empurples the morn; She loves me, oh ! Heav'n, let me never forego, The faith on her lips I have sworn. This bosom though fervid with youth and with health, In all else shall persuasion control ; Bid me fly from the charms of ambition and wealth, Or the joys of the bright sparkling bowl: But Eliza, dear maid ! till in earth I'm laid low, In my heart shall her image be borne, While she loves me, by Heav'n, I will never forego The faith on her lips I have sworn. 264 AMATORY SONGS. THE BEAUTIFUL MAID. When absent from her whom my soul holds most dear What a medley of passions invade ! In this bosom what anguish, what hope and what fear, I endure for my beautiful maid ! In vain I seek pleasure to lighten my grief, Or quit the gay throng for the shade*, Nor retirement nor solitude yield me relief, When away from my beautiful maid. I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Where roses, and lillies, and violets meet; Roving forever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh, could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sing9. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas ! nought but misery brings ; I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What, tho' you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ; Surely t'is better when summer is over. To die when all fair things are fading away ; AMATORY SONGS. 265 Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay. I'd be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away. I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, Dying when fair things are fading away. I'LL LOVE THEE EVER DEARLY. Let others breathe the melting sigh, And swear they love to madness; To them I leave the tearful eye, And all love's sober sadness. No tender vows and pray'rs are mine, But this I swear sincerely, While truth and honest love are thine, I'll love thee ever dearly. Then lady, though I scorn the wiles Which love too oft discovers, Ne'er spurn the heart that woos in smiles, For smiles are made for lovers. And though no tender vows are mine, Yet this I swear sincerely, While truth and honest love are thine, I'll love thee ever dearly. I CANNOT ST£Y A MINUTE. Now where so fast ? a young man said To her he lov'd, one day, When she, with blushes, turn'd her head, And cried, don't stop me, pray; But why this hurry ? he replied, As blithe as any linnet; Yet still the pretty Emma cried, I cannot stay a minute. 12 266 AMATORY SONGS. But why not, dearest, tell me why ? He still With ardour press'd, Then said, by that love beaming eye This haste is all a jest; And could it by a bet be tried, Right sure I am to win it, Yet still the pretty Emma cried, I cannot stay a minute'. You can't, but Miss, said he, you must, And shall go with me too, Nay, more, I'll make, by all that's just, A bride this morn of you. This morn, said she, make me a bride, There's something pleasing in it; Oh ! how I'm hurried, Emma cried, Pray don't let's stay a minute. THINE AM I. Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy, Every pulse among my veins, Every roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish: Though despair had wrung its core; That would heal its anguish. Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure. What is life when wanting love ? Night without a morning; Love's the cloudless summer's sun, Nature gay adorning. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. I KNEW BY THE SMOKE. I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near ; And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world, The heart that was humble might hope for it here. Twas noon, and on flowers that languish'd around, In silence repos'd the voluptuous bee; Ev'ry leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound, But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim'd, With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep when I blam'd, How bless'd could I live, and how calm could I die! By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine. COME REST IN THIS BOSOM. Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer ! Though the herd have flown from thee, thy home still here ; Here still is a smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last. 268 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. Oh ! what was love made for if tis not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame ? I knew not I ask'd not if guilt's in that heart, - But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! Thou call'st me thy angel in moments of bliss, — Still thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this, — Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too ! HOME, SWEET HOME. Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with else- where ; Home, home — sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home, there's no place like home. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; Oh ! give me my lonely thatch'd cottage again, Where the birds sing gaily that come at my call ; Give me these, with the peace of mind dearer than all; Home, home — sweet home; There's no place like home, there's no place like home. THE BEACON, OR LIGHT -HOUSE. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye, Than if day in its pride had array'd it ; The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky Look'd pure as the spirit that made it. The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd On the shadowy waves playful motion, SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 269 From the dim distant isle, till the beacon-fire blas'd Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast, Was heard jn his wildly breath'd numbers; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers: One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope, (All hush'd was the billows' commotion) And thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long pass'd and the, scene is afar; Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star • That blaz'd on the breast of the billow. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies And death stills the heart's last emotion; O! then may the seraph of mercy arise Like a star on eternity's ocean! WILLIAM TELL. When William Tell was doom'd to die, Or hit the mark upon his infant's head — The bell toll'd out, the hour was nigh, And soldiers march'd with grief and dread! The warrior came serene and mild, Gaz'd all around with dauntless look, Till his Fond boy unconscious smil'd; Then nature and the father spoke. And now, each valiant Swiss his grief partakes, For they sigh, And wildly cry, Poor William Tell! once hero of the lakes. But soon is heard the muffled drum, And straight the pointed arrow flies, 270 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. Tbe trembling boy expects his' doom, All, all shriek out — "he dies! he dies." When lo! the lofty trumpet sounds! - The mark is hit! the child is free! Into his father's arms he bounds, • Inspir'd by love and liberty! And now each valiant Swiss their joy partakes, For mountains ring, Whilst they sing, Live William Tell! the hero of the lakes. NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN. Tftis world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion giv'n; The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven. And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of even; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day! From wave to wave we're driven; And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way — There's nothing calm but Heaven! FRIEND OF MY SOUL. Friend of my soul! this goblet sip, 'Twill chase each pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But oh! 'tis more sincere. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 271 Like her delusive beam, 'Twill steal away thy mind; But like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind! Come twine the wreath our brows to shade, These flowers were cull'd at noon; Like woman's love the rose will fade, But ah! not half so soon. For tho' the flow'r's decay'd, Its fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betray'd, The heart can bloom no more! SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying! She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Ev'ry note which he lov'd awaking — Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died They were all that to life had entwin'd him, — Nor soon shall the tear? of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him! Oh! make her a grave, where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own lov'd Island of sorrow! THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection recalls them to view — ( 27~2 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. The orchard,the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood, And ev'ry lov'd spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dary-house nigh it, The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — The moss covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure, For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield; How ardent I siez'd it with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell, Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well. The old oaken bucket, &c. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As pois'd on the cord, it inclin'd to my lips, Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Tho' fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now far remov'd from the lov'd situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy revisits my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, &c. OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken, The eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night, &c. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 273 When I remember all The friends so link'd together, Fve seen around me fall, Like leaves in winter weather, I feel like one, who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, whose garland 's dead, And all but he deserted. Thus in the stilly night, &c. THE CARRIER PIGEON. Come hither thou beautiful rover, Thou wand'rer of earth and of air; Who bear'st the sighs of the lover, And bringest him news of his fair. Bend hither thy light waving pinion, And shew me the gloss of thy neck; O! perch on my hand, dearest minion, And turn up thy bright eye and peck. Here's bread of the whitest and sweetest, And there is a sip of red wine ; Though thy wing is the lightest and fleetest, 'Twill be fleeter when nerv'd by the vine; I have written on rose-scented paper, With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux, I have melted the wax in love's taper, T'is the color of true hearts, sky blue. I have fasten'd it under thy pinion, With a blue ribbon round thy soft neck; So go from me, beautiful minion, While the pure ether shows not a speck. Like a cloud in the dim distance fleeting, Like an arrow he hurries away ; And farther and farther retreating, He is lost in the clear blue of day. 12* 274 SENTIMENTAL SONGS, THE LAVENDER GIRL, As the sun climbs o'er the hills, When the sky lark sings so cheerily I my little basket fill, And trudge along the village merrily. Light my bosom, light my heart, I but laugh at Cupid's dart; I keep my mother, myself and brother, By trudging along to sell my lavender. Ladies try it, come and buy it, Never saw ye nicer lavender; Ladies try it, try it, try it, Come, come, buy my lavender. Ere the gentry quit their beds, Foes to health, I'm wisely keeping it; Oft I earn my daily bread, And sit beneath the hedge partaking it. Ne'er repining, ne'er distress'd, Tell me then am not I bless'd ? Tho' not wealthy, I'm young and healthy, And only care to sell my lavender. Ladies, try it, &c. THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR. To the mountain's wild echo I warble my lays, And harmless I wander thro' woods and thro' braes; The peasant, by moonlight, oft strays o'er the moor, To welcome the song of the young Troubadour. 0! come to the lattice, and list to my lay; Wave, wave thy fair hand and bid me to stay; O! grant but this boon, I ask for no more, 'Twill enliven the song of the young Troubadour. Then I'll sing the old ditties of heroes that died, And of maidens like you, for whom lovers have sigh'd SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 275 O! hearken then, lady, to-morrow i'm sure You'H welcome the song of the young Troubadour. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where The sun came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish that night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember The roses red and white, The vi'lets and the lily cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The liburnum on his birth-day — The tree is living yet! / I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirits flew in feathers then, That are so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I Temember, I remember The fir trees dark and high: I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy 276 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. DULCE DOMUM. Deep in a vale a cottage stood, Oft sought by travellers weary, And long it. prov'd the blest abode Of Edward and of Mary. For her he'd chase the mountain-goat* O'er Alps and glaciers bounding, For her the chamios he would shoot, Dark horrors all surroundings But evening come, he sought his home* While anxious lovely woman, She hailed the sight, and every night The cottage rung As they sung. Oh, dulce, dulce, domum. But soon, alas! this scene of bliss Was changed to prospects dreary, For war and honor rous'd each Swiss And Edward left his Mary. To bold St. Gothard's height he rush'd 'Gainst Gallia's force contending; And by unequal numbers cruslTd, He died his land defending. The evening come, he sought not home, Whilst she, (distracted woman,) Grown wild with dread, now seeks him dead* And hears the knell That bids farewell To dulce, dulce domum. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 277 THE RAY THAT BEAMS FOREVER. There is a bloom that never fades, A Rose no storms can sever, Beyond the Tulip's gaudy shades The ray that beams forever. There is a charm surpassing art, A charm in every feature, Than twines around the feeling heart, It is thy voice, oh Nature ! Then stranger, if thou fain wouldst find This rose no storm can sever, Go seek it stranger in the Mind — The ray that beams forever. I LOVE THE VILLAGE CHURCH. I love the village church, With its ivy mantled tower; And rustic forms around the porch, At the Sabbath's holy hour. The music of the bell, O'er the pleasant valley stealing, And the simple prayer that breathes so well The pure heart's fervent feeling. I love the village green, Where after hours of labor, At eve the young and old are seen, With merry pipe and tabor. The banquet is not spread, As it is in courtly places; But nature, o'er the spot, has shed Her own peculiar graces. 278 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. CANADIAN BOAT SONG. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim ? We'll sing, at Saint Ann's, our parting hymn Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sails unfurl? There's not a breath the blue wave to curl; But when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past. Utawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon; Saint of the green isle, hear our prayers; Oh, grant us cool heavens, and favoring airs! Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past. AWAY MY BOUNDING STEED. Away! my bounding steed away, I ride for princely halls; Ay, paw the ground and proudly neigh, The tourney trumpet calls. Nay, spur and speed, thou gallant knight, Or lose the meed of fame; Vouch in the lists thy lady's right, And conquer in her name. The challenge breath 'd I cast my glove; All rivals thus I dare! In arms I'll prove my lady-love The fairest of the fair. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 279 Now poise the Umper'd lance on high — It shivers on my shield — Then forth two flashing rapiers fly, And skill decides the field. The joust is done, the prize is won, And merry is the victor's eye; Pass wine cups round, while clarions sound The joys of love and chivalry. THE MINSTREL'S RETURN FROM THE WAR The minstrel's return'd from the war, With spirits as buoyant as air, And thus on his tuneful guitar, He sung in the bower of his fair: 'The noise of the battle is over, , The bugle no more calls to arms; A soldier no more — but a lover, I bend to the power of thy charms. * 6 Sweet lady, fair lady I'm thine, I bend to the magic of beauty, Tho' the banner and helmet are mine, Yet love calls the soldier to duty,' The minstrel his suit warmly press'd, She blush'd, sigh'd and hung down her head, Till conquer'd she fell on his breast, And thus to the happy youth said: 'The bugle shall part us love, never, My bosom thy pillow shall be, Till death tears thee from me, forever, Still faithful I'll perish with thee.' Sweet lady, &c. But fame call'd the youth to the field; His banner wav'd high o'er his head, 1 He gave his guitar for a shield, And soon he lay low with the dead, 280 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. While she o'er her young hero bending, Receiv'd his expiring adieu: 1 1 die whilst my country defending, But I die to my lady love true.' e Oh, death! (then she cried) I am thine, I tear off the roses of beauty; The grave of my hero is mine, For he died true to love and to duty!' OH ! REST THEE BABE. Oh! slumber, my darling, Thy sire is a knight, Thy mother's a lady, So lovely and bright, The hills and the dales, From the towers which we see, They all shall belong, , My dear infant, to thee. Oh! rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day; Oh! rest thee, babe, rest thee babe, sleep whilst thou may. Oh! rest thee, my darling, The time it shall come, When thy sleep shall be broken By trumpet and drum. Then rest thee, my darling, Oh! sleep whilst thou may; For war comes with manhood, As light comes with day. Oh! rest thee, babe, &c. LOW WAV'D THE SUMMER WOODS. Low wav'd the summer woods and green, As Bertram rode their boughs between, SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 281 The breeze that sigh'd amid tneir blooms Play'd in the warrior's waving plumes. Lady, adieu! 'tis summer now, And brightly summer rose? blow; But oh! they'll often bloom and fade Before I sheathe again my blade. » They oft shall fade, shall often bloom, Before I turn my courser home; When again I breathe a lover's vow, They'll blossom in the drifted snow; Lady adieu! forever more, The spell 's unbound that bound before ; Thy scorn has rous'd a soldier's pride, And glory now shall be his bride. THE KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN CREST. The banners wav'd on the castle walls, 'Mid the shouts of a trusty band, When a knight return 'd to his princely halls, From the wars of the holy land. His lady had left her harp, and stood To gaze on the smiling west, When came a dark "steed from the distant wood, With her knight of the golden crest. The crimson scarf her true knight display 'd Which in earlier day she wove, When he breath'd his vows in the twilight glade, And was blest with her maiden love. She welcom'd her lord with accents bland * And the scarf to her lips she press'd, And thought of the time when she gave her hand To the knight of the golden crest. 282 ' SENTIMENTAL SONGS. THE ALPINE MAID. That strain proclaims my lover near, He heeds not the thunder's crash, The avalanche's dread descent, Nor lightning's vivid flash. The mountain pass no terror strikes, From crag to crag he bounds, While echoing ev'ry note he plays From hill to dale resounds. And then when he my cottage gains, What soft transporting bliss, Deiights each heart while we exchange Love's pure impassion'd kiss. We envy not the vaunted joys Which greet the gay — the great, — Content and mutual love will gild Our humbler, happier state. THE BONNY SLEIGH. Tune — l The bonny boat* O swiftly glides the bonny sleigh, Just parted from the door, With jingling bells and horses' neigh The snow dash'd up before, This pleasure now, and happy cheer, Are much enjoy'd indeed; With blooming belles to us so dear, To Laurel Hill we'll speed. We cast our lines upon the rails, Where snow had drifted wide; Our tyonny sleigh, hats, coats and veils, Were all then laid aside: Then happy prov'd the merrv dance Upon the mansion flood; SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 283 While wine and cider mull'd and warm. Came in at every door. The skaters on the ice may sing, Whilst all around they charm; But we prefer the sleigh bells' ring, When all wrap'd up so warm: It safely bears its lonely store Through many a stormy gale; Whilst joyful shouts from half a score, Our merry party hail. We cast our lines upon the rails* Where snow had drifted wide; Our bonny sleigh, coats, hats and veils, Were all then laid aside: Then happy prov'd the jolly folks, With ne'er a sigh nor cane: We'll now return and crack some jokes, Where all our treasures are. Now near the city we are come, The lamps I plainly see : From the good dame we left at home, Our welcome warm will be ' The well known shout and sleigh bells' ring, Seem echoing in her ears; Now come, my boys, let's loudly sing, She'll soon forget her fears. We'll cast our lines upon the post, That stands before the door, And then we'll all our fingers toast, And sleigh a little more. Then happy prove each pleasant jaunt Upon the wintry plain ; I'm sure we shall not sleighing want, If snow don't turn to rain. 284 SENTIMENTAL SONGS. AS I WALK'D OUT. As I walk'd out one May morning, To hear the birds sing sweet, I sat myself down in the shade of the grove, To see two lovers meet. To see two lovers meet, my dear, And hear what they had to say, I wanted to hear a little of their minds, Before I went away. 'Come sit you down by me my girl, Come sit you down on the green, It has been three quarters of a long year, or more, Since together fve have been.' 'I can't sit down, nor I wont sit down, For I've not one moment of time; And more than that you've another true love, And your heart is none of mine. 'Don't you remember, kind sir,' said she, 'As your arm lay around my waist, You'd have made me believe by the false oath you swore, That the sun did arise in the west. *That the sun did arise in the west, my dear, And then return'd to the east, And when I came to my senses again I found it was nought but a jest. 'I never will believe what a young man says Let him be black, white or brown, Except when he sits on a high gallows top, And says he would fain come down. SENTIMENTAL SONGS. 285 'And says he would fain come down, my dear, That he would not like to be hung, Young men's words are hard to believe, For they vow to many a one.