«Песенник Бидла № 4: Сборник новых и популярных комических и сентиментальных песен»

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4 БИДЛС 4

ДЕШЕВЫЙ ПЕСЕННИК

№ 4.

СБОРНИК НОВЫХ И ПОПУЛЯРНЫХ

КОМИЧЕСКИХ И СЕНТИМЕНТАЛЬНЫХ

ПЕСЕН.

НЬЮ-ЙОРК: БИДЛ И КОМПАНИЯ, Издатели массовой дешевой литературы .

Книги на злобу дня!

ВОЕННЫЕ ПОДВИГИ

ВЕЛИКИХ

Солдат и Генералов.

БИДЛ

ДЕШЕВАЯ БИОГРАФИЧЕСКАЯ БИБЛИОТЕКА.

Каждый выпуск самостоятелен. 100 страниц. Цена десять центов.

№ 6.— Жизнь, военная и гражданская служба генерал-лейтенанта УИНФИЛДА СКОТТА. Доведена до настоящего времени.

№ 4.— Жизнь, эпоха и служба ЭНТОНИ УЭЙНА ( Безумного Энтони ), бригадного генерала в Войне за независимость и главнокомандующего армией во время Индейской войны.

№ 1.— Жизнь ДЖУЗЕППЕ ГАРИБАЛЬДИ : Освободителя Италии. Доведена до ухода Гарибальди в свое островное поместье после Неаполитанской кампании 1860 года.

Эти прекрасные книги о самых блестящих полководцах и воинах новейшего времени представляют исключительный интерес в настоящий момент. Каждая книга представляет собой полную летопись людей и событий, в которых они сыграли столь славную роль.

КАЖДЫЙ МОЛОДОЙ ЧЕЛОВЕК ДОЛЖЕН ПРОЧИТАТЬ ИХ!

КАЖДЫЙ СОЛДАТ ДОЛЖЕН ПРОЧИТАТЬ ИХ!

КАЖДЫЙ СТОРОННИК СОЮЗА ДОЛЖЕН ПРОЧИТАТЬ ИХ!

Продается во всех газетных киосках.

БИДЛС

ДЕШЕВЫЙ

ПЕСЕННИК

№ 4.

СБОРНИК НОВЫХ И ПОПУЛЯРНЫХ

КОМИЧЕСКИХ И СЕНТИМЕНТАЛЬНЫХ

ПЕСЕН.

НЬЮ-ЙОРК: ИРВИН П. БИДЛ И К° , УЛ. УИЛЬЯМ СТРИТ, 137 .

Зарегистрировано в соответствии с Актом Конгресса в 1860 году ИРВИНОМ П. БИДЛОМ И К° в Канцелярии окружного суда Соединенных Штатов по Южному округу Нью-Йорка.

CONTENTS OF DIME SONG BOOK NO. 4. Page Ain’t I Glad to get out of the Wilderness, 22 A National Song, 11 Answer to Katy Darling, 42 A Merry Gipsy Girl Again, 47 A Parody on “Uncle Sam’s Farm,” 34 Ben Fisher and Wife, 9 Bonnie Jamie, 17 Broken-Hearted Tom, the Lover, 39 By the Sad Sea-Waves, 58 Columbia Rules the Sea, 29 Come Gang awa’ wi’ Me, 13 Commence you Darkies all, 28 Cottage by the Sea, 8 Daylight is on the Sea, 59 Don’t Cry so, Norah, Darling, 6 Erin is my Home, 31 Gal from the South, 27 He Led Her to the Altar, 66 Home, Sweet Home, 53 I am a Freeman, 55 I’ll Hang My Harp on a Willow-Tree, 18 I’m not Myself at All, 30 Indian Hunter, 50 I’ve been Roaming o’er the Prairie, 16 I Wish He would Decide, Mamma, 32 Jane Monroe, 69 Johnny is Gone for a Soldier, 19 Jolly Jack the Rover, 23 Kate was Once a Little Girl, 60 Kitty Tyrrel, 61 Let Me Kiss Him for His Mother, 48 Linda’s Gone to Baltimore, 15 Maud Adair and I, 5 Molly Bawn, 51 My ain Fireside, 49 My Boyhood’s Home, 53 Nora the Pride of Kildare, 51 O God! Preserve the Mariner, 46 Oh, Kiss, but never Tell, 21 Old Uncle Edward, 64 Paddy on the Canal, 68 Poor Old Maids, 45 Ship A-hoy! 56 Somebody’s Courting Somebody, 24 Song of the Farmer, 37 Song of Blanche Alpen, 57 Sparking Sunday Night, 41 Sprig of Shilleleh, 43 Stand by the Flag, 36 The Farmer’s Boy, 36 The Hazel Dell, 52 The Harp that once Through Tara’s Hall, 31 The Indian Warrior’s Grave, 50 The Little Low Room where I Courted my Wife, 25 The Low Backed Car, 44 The Old Brown Cot, 12 The Old Kirk-Yard, 54 The Railroad Engineer’s Song, 14 They don’t Wish Me at Home, 38 Tom Brown, 70 Terry O’Reilly, 40 Uncle Gabriel, 65 Uncle Tim, the Toper, 71 We were Boys and Girls Together, 33 We are all so Fond of Kissing, 20 We are Growing Old Together, 7 Where are now the Hopes I Cherished? 64 Within a Mile of Edinburg Town, 62 Would I were a Boy Again, 35 Would I were a Girl Again, 35 Would I were with Thee, 63

ДЕШЕВЫЙ ПЕСЕННИК БИДЛА

ДЕШЕВЫЙ ПЕСЕННИК

№ 4.

Мод Адер и я.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

One year ago were we sixteen,

Maud Adair and I,

With lightsome tread we tript the green,

Maud Adair and I;

But Maud Adair is lying low,

She left poor me three moons ago;

We ne’er shall meet again below,

Maud Adair and I.

Chorus.—My Maud Adair! Sweet Maud Adair!

We’ll meet again up in the sky,

Maud Adair and I.

One year ago, with hand in hand,

Maud Adair and I,

We roam’d the sunny hill and strand,

Maud Adair and I;

But one sad eve, with tearful eye,

She whisper’d low a last “Good-by,”—

We’ll meet again up in the sky,

Maud Adair and I.

Chorus.—My Maud Adair, &c.

How happy were we, and how true,

Maud Adair and I,

Like elm and ivy, upward grew

Maud Adair and I;

Oh, be thy spirit ever near

To whisper softly words of cheer!

While God doth guard, what can we fear,

Maud Adair and I?

Chorus.—My Maud Adair, &c.

Не плачь так, милая Нора.

Copied by permission, of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Wipe those tears away,

Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Smile on me to-day;

See the wind is freshly blowing,

And the ship longs for the sea,

Be to-day your smiles bestowing

Sweetly, love, on me.

Chorus.—Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Wipe those tears away;

Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Smile on me to-day.

Though ’tis sad to leave you, darling,

I must no more stay,

Think of me, Norina, darling,

When I’m far away;

And, although to part brings sadness,

Keep your young heart light and free,

Your sweet face adorn with gladness,

Thinking still of me.

Don’t you cry so, &c.

Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Wipe those tears away,

Don’t you cry so, Norah, darling,

Smile on me to-day;

When from work I rest a-weary,

All my thoughts on you will be,

And my life will not seem dreary,

If you’re true to me.

Don’t you cry so, &c.

Мы стареем вместе.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear,

The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear;

Some friends we loved are in their graves, and many are estranged,

But in sunshine or in shadow, our hearts are never changed.

We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear,

The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear.

We are growing old together, the ivy and the tree

A fitting emblem is dear, of the love ’twixt you and me;

To be worthy of each other in the past was all our aim,

And ’tis pleasant now to know, dear, our hearts are still the same.

We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear,

The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear.

We are growing old together, together may we die—

Together may our spirits soar to our home beyond the sky;

For we loved as few can love, dear, when life’s flowery paths we ranged,

And though we’ve wander’d long here, our hearts have never changed.

We are growing old together, thou dearest of the dear,

The morning of our life is past, and evening shades appear.

Хижина у моря.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

Childhood’s days now pass before me

Forms and scenes of long ago,

Like a dream they hover o’er me,

Calm and bright as evening’s glow,

Days that know no shade of sorrow,

There my young heart pure and free,

Joyful hail’d each coming morrow

In the Cottage by the Sea.

ПРИПЕВ.

In the Cottage by the Sea,

In the Cottage by the Sea,

Joyful hail’d each coming morrow

In the Cottage by the Sea.

Fancy sees the rose-trees twining,

Round the old and rustic door,

And below, the white beach shining,

Where I gather’d shells of yore.

Hears my mother’s gentle warning,

As she took me on her knee;

And I feel again life’s morning,

In the Cottage by the Sea.

In the Cottage by the Sea, &c.

What though years rolled above me,

Though ’mid fairer scenes I roam,

Yet I ne’er shall cease to love thee,

Childhood’s dear and happy home!

And when life’s long day is closing,

Oh! how pleasant it would be;

On some faithful heart reposing

In the Cottage by the Sea.

In the Cottage by the Sea, &c.

Бен Фишер с женой.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

Ben Fisher had finish’d his hard day’s work,

And he sat at his cottage door;

His good wife Kate sat by his side,

And the moonlight danced on the floor—

The moonlight danced on the cottage floor,

Her beams were clear and bright,

As when he and Kate, twelve years before,

Talk’d love in her mellow light.

Talk’d love in her mellow light.

Chorus.—The moonlight danced on the cottage floor,

Her beams were clear and bright,

As when he and Kate, twelve years before,

Talk’d love in her mellow light.

Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay,

And never a dram drank he,

So he loved at home with his wife to stay,

And they chatted right merrily—

Right merrily they chatted on,

Her babe slept on her breast,

While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile,

On his father’s knee found rest,

On his father’s knee found rest.

Right merrily, &c.

Ben told her how fast the potatoes grew,

And the corn in the lower field,

And the wheat on the hills was grown to seed,

And promised a glorious yield.

A glorious yield in the summer-time,

And his orchard was doing fair,

His sheep and his flock were in their prime,

His farm all in good repair,

His farm all in good repair.

A glorious yield, &c.

Kate said that her garden look’d beautiful,

Her fowls and her calves were fat,

The butter that Tommy that morning had churn’d,

Would buy him a Sunday hat.

That Jenny for pa a new shirt had made,

And it was done, too, by the rule,

That Neddy nicely could the garden spade.

And Ann was up head at school.

And Ann was up head at school.

That Jenny for pa, &c.

Ben slowly raised his toil-worn hand,

Through his locks of grayish brown:

“I’ll tell you, Kate, what I think,” said he,

“We’re the happiest folks in town.”

“I know,” said Kate, “that we all work hard

Work and health go together I’ve found,

For there’s Mrs. Bell does not work at all,

And she’s sick the whole year round,

And she’s sick the whole year round.

I know,” said Kate, &c.

“They are worth their thousands, so people say,

But I ne’er saw them happy yet;

’Twould not be me that would take their gold,

And live in a constant fret.

My humble home has a light within,

Mrs. Bell’s gold could not buy—

Six lovely children, a merry heart,

And a husband’s love-lit eye,

And a husband’s love-lit eye.

My humble home, &c.”

I fancied a tear was in Ben’s fine eye,

The moon shone brighter and clearer,

I could not tell why the man should cry,

But he hitch’d up to Kate still nearer.

He lean’d his head on her shoulder there,

And he took her hand in his,

And I guess (though I look’d at the moon just then),

That he left on her lips a kiss,

That he left on her lips a kiss.

He lean’d his head, &c.

Национальная песня.

All hail! Unfurl the stripes and stars!

The banner of the free!

Ten times ten thousand patriots greet

The shrine of Liberty;

Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,

An undivided band,

To elevate, with solemn rites,

The ruler of our land.

Not to invest a potentate,

With robes of majesty—

Not to confer a kingly crown,

Nor bend a supple knee.

We now beneath no scepter’d sway—

Obey no royal nod—

Columbia’s sons, erect and free,

Kneel only to their God!

Our ruler boasts no titled rank,

No ancient, princely line—

No legal right to sovereignty,

Ancestral and divine.

A patriot—at his country’s call

Responding to her voice

One of the people—he becomes

A sovereign by our choice.

And now, before the mighty pile

We’ve rear’d to Liberty,

He swears to cherish and defend

The charter of the free!

God of our country! seal his oath

With thy supreme assent.

God save the Union of the States!

God save the President!

Старая бурая хижина.

Among the scenes to memory dear,

To which my fancy oft returns,

And for those long-lost days of joy

My spirit in its sadness dreams.

There’s none which seems so dear to me

As that where past life’s early morn;

There’s none for which I sigh so oft,

As for the cot where I was born.

ПРИПЕВ.

The old brown cot, the low brown cot,

The moss-grown cot beneath the hill;

Though years have pass’d since I was there,

I love it, oh, I love it still.

It stood beside the running brook

Whose waters turn’d the noisy mill;

And close beside the tall old oaks

That nodded on the sloping hill.

The woodbine creeping o’er the walls,

The sunshine on the grassy plot,

How beautiful were they to me,

When home was in that old brown cot!

The old brown cot, &c.

Though I may view the fairest land

On which the sun in glory beams,

And dwell in climes more beautiful

Than poets visit in their dreams,

Still will affection linger round

That loved and consecrated spot,

And tears will fall as I go back

To boyhood and the old brown cot.

The old brown cot, &c.

Пойдем со мной.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

Oh! come my love, the moon shines bright,

Across yon rippling sea,

Come let thy heart be gay and light,

And hasten love wi’ me.

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met

Beneath the greenwood tree,

Then let thy heart be lighter yet,

Come, gang awa’ wi’ me.

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met,

Beneath the greenwood tree,

Then let thy heart be lighter yet,

Come gang awa’ wi’ me.

Oh! tarry not, my only love,

I’ve pledged myself to thee,

And by yon stars that shine above,

Forever thine I’ll be;

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met

Beneath the greenwood tree,

Then say, ere yonder stars have set,

Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me.

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met

Beneath the greenwood tree,

Then say ere yonder stars have set,

Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me.

Thy features are so fair my love,

Thy mind is ever free,

Oh! let thy willing heart still prove

The love thou bear’st to me.

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met

Beneath the greenwood tree,

Then say ere yonder stars have set,

I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye.

’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met,

Beneath the greenwood tree.

Then say, ere yonder stars have set,

I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye.

Песня железнодорожного машиниста.

I love—oh, how I love to ride

The Iron Horse in his fiery pride!

All other joys seem dull and vain,

When I lay my hand on his misty mane.

Fear him not! with his ribs of steel,

His flaming throat, and his brushing wheel;

And his smoky crest, so black and tall,

Like a pillar cover’d with a funeral pall.

Though his stamping shakes the solid ground,

And he scatters fire-flakes all around,

He’s gentle as jennet in lady’s rein

When he feels my hand on his misty mane.

Set me astride of the Iron Horse!

Full of fierce fury, speed, and force;

And hark how he pants, and blows, and snorts,

While my skill his eager bounding thwarts.

But when I’m mounted on his back,

And you see him coming—clear the track!

Nothing can check him on his course,

As he thunders along—my Iron Horse!

Then huzza! the Iron Horse for me!

The eagle scarce flies as fast as he;

He skims the valley and scours the plain,

And shakes, like a cloud, his misty mane.

He tracks the prairie, climbs the hill,

The wild woods echo his neighing shrill;

And when the fierce tempest lashes the shores,

Louder than ever the storm he roars.

Линда уехала в Балтимор.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

Oh, Linda’s gone to Baltimore,

To stay a week or two,

And till she comes safe home again,

I don’t know what to do.

I take the banjo on my knee,

But can not hear to play,

For music only makes me sad,

When Linda’s gone away,

When Linda’s gone away.

ПРИПЕВ.

Oh, my heart am very lonely

All the night and day,

For every thing seems sad and drear,

When Linda’s gone away.

I think of all the olden times

We’ve had when she was here,

I did not know ’till she was gone,

That she was half so dear.

The flowers are blooming all around

And all but me are gay,

For all the time I think or dream

Of Linda far away.

Chorus.—Oh, my heart am very lonely, &c.

Though many years have pass’d and gone

Since we were in our prime,

I loved her more as on we roam’d

Adown the Vale of Time!

How very much she thinks of me,

I should not dare to say;

But oh, it always breaks my heart

When Linda’s gone away.

Chorus.—Oh, my heart am very lonely, &c.

Я бродил по прериям.

I’ve been roaming, roaming o’er the prairies wild

Plucking dewy blossoms, happy as a child;

Casting care and sadness very far away,

For the earth rejoices on this pleasant day.

I’ve been roaming, roaming where the lilies sleep,

On the tiny lakelet sparkling cool and deep,

Where the brooklet singeth o’er the pebbles white,

Making gladsome music glancing in the light;

Where the brooklet singeth o’er the pebbles white,

Making gladsome music glancing in the light.

I’ve been roaming, roaming through the wild wood deep

Searching for the flowrets when the prairies sleep;

In the tiny blossoms swaying to and fro,

Whispering to each other very soft and low.

I’ve been roaming, roaming o’er the dewy grass,

Gemm’d with fairy blossoms waving as I pass,

For the breeze was flitting o’er the grassy lea,

Whispering many a story to the flowers and me;

For the breeze was flitting o’er the grassy lea,

Whispering many a story to the flowers and me.

Красавчик Джейми.

The twilight hour is stealing,

The day is dying fast,

Neath the birken tree I’m kneeling,

Where Jamie met me last.

Where Jamie met me last;

While tears fell from mine e’e,

But my bonnie, bonnie Jamie

Has cross’d the stormy sea.

The war’s alarms were sounding,

For soldiers brave and true,

My deary’s heart was bounding,

He join’d the army too.

He join’d the army too,

To fight for liberty,

Oh, my bonnie, bonnie Jamie

Has gone to war to dee.

Sin e’er I was a bairnee,

My Jamie I ha’ known,

The fire of his bright e’e,

His voice sae saft and low.

His voice sae saft and low,

So snood and braw look’d he,

Oh, my bonnie, bonnie Jamie,

Will I nae mair see thee?

I gave unto my dearie

A lock of my gowden hair,

His sword I buckled cheerie,

And kiss’d his brow sae fair.

And kiss’d his brow sae fair,

Which he gave back to me,

Oh, my bonnie, bonnie Jamie,

Is a’ the world to me.

Brave Mars, thou God of Battle,

My heart now speaks to thee,

When cannons loudly rattle,

On my dearie keep thine e’e.

On my dearie keep thine e’e,

My prayers I’ll gie to thee,

For my bonnie, bonnie Jamie,

He’s a’ the world to me.

Я повешу арфу на ибу.

I’ll hang my harp on a willow-tree,

I’ll off to the wars again,

My peaceful home has no charms for me,

The battle-field no pain;

The lady I love will soon be a bride

With a diadem on her brow;

Oh, why did she flatter my boyish pride,

She’s going to leave me now.

Oh, why, &c.

She took me away from my warlike lord,

And gave me a silken suit,

I thought no more of my master’s sword,

When I play’d on my master’s lute.

She seem’d to think me a boy above

Her pages of low degree;

Oh, had I but loved with a boyish love,

It would have been better for me;

Oh, had I, &c.

Then I’ll hide in my breast every selfish care;

I’ll flush my pale cheeks with wine;

When smiles awake the bridal pair

I’ll hasten to give them mine;

I’ll laugh and I’ll sing, though my heart may bleed,

And I’ll walk in the festal train,

And if I survive it I’ll mount my steed,

And I’ll off to the wars again.

And if I survive, &c.

But one golden tress of her hair I’ll twine

In my helmet’s sable plume,

And then on the field of Palestine,

I’ll seek an early doom.

And if by the Saracen’s hand I fall,

’Mid the noble and the brave,

A tear from my lady love is all

I ask for the warrior’s grave.

A tear from, &c,

Джонни ушел в солдаты.

I’ll trace these gardens o’er and o’er,

Meditate on each sweet flower,

Thinking of each happy hour,—

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.

ПРИПЕВ.

Shool, Shool, Shool, agrah!

Time can only ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.

Some say my love is gone to France,

There his fortune to advance,

And if I find him it’s but a chance,—

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier,

Shool, Shool, &c.

I’ll sell my frock, I’ll sell my wheel,

I’ll buy my love a sword of steel,

So in the battle he may reel,—

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.

Shool, Shool, &c.

I wish I was on yonder hill,

It’s there I’d sit and cry my fill,

So every tear may turn a mill,—

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.

Shool, Shool, &c.

I’ll dye my dress, I’ll dye it red,

All over the world I’ll beg my bread,

So my parents may think me dead—

Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.

Shool, Shool, &c.

Мы все так любим целоваться.

Oh, kiss me quick and let me go,

Don’t keep me here a waiting,

For if by chance we should be caught,

It would set the gals a talking.

I vow, I quite in passion get,

To see you act so silly,

I think I’ll have to kiss you first,

For I’m getting very chilly.

ПРИПЕВ.

Oh, kiss me quick, and let me go,

Don’t keep me here a waiting,

For if by chance we should be caught,

It would set the gals a talking.

She’s fond of kissing, that I know,

So often as I meet her,

She says, “Kiss me quick, and let me go,

You’ll love me all the better.”

At evening when the room was dark,

And time was getting later,

I thought I’d steal a kiss from her,

And I kiss’d the Nigger Waiter.

Oh, kiss me quick, &c.

Oh, now I’ll give you good advice,

When you go a sparking,

Don’t do your kissing in the dark,

For fear your lips of marking.

But choose the day and fear no shame,

If its not distressing,

I’m sure its nothing very new,

For we’re all so fond of kissing.

Oh, kiss me quick, and let me go, &c.

О, целуй, но никому не говори.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

When love grows warm there is a charm,

And oft a sacred bliss,

When fond hearts greet for lips to meet

In sweet affection’s kiss;

But to reveal the sacred seal

Which hallows it so well,

May quench love’s flame with breath of shame,

So kiss, but never tell.

ПРИПЕВ.

Oh, kiss, but never tell, oh never!

Breathing breaks the spell.

True lovers pledged to keep forever,

Kiss, but never tell.

At night, when eyes like stars beam bright,

And kindred souls commune,

And heart to heart love’s vows impart,

Beneath the smiling moon:

At such an hour of magic power,

What hallow’d raptures dwell,

In each true breast by honor blest,

To kiss, and never tell.

ПРИПЕВ.

Then kiss but never tell,

Breathing breaks the spell,

True lovers pledged to keep forever,

Kiss, but never tell!

Разве я не рад выбраться из глуши.

Music—

Tum, Tum, Tum, Tum.

Chorus.—

Ahaa—Ahaa—Ahaa—Ahaa.

Solo—

Way down south in Beaver Creek,

In Beaver Creek, in Beaver Creek,

De niggers-dey grow about ten feet,

Way down in Alabam.

Chorus.—

Oh, ain’t I glad we got out of the wilderness

Out of the wilderness,

Oh, ain’t we glad we got out of the wilderness

And left old Alabam.

[Symphony with dance as above.]

Solo—

Dey wet the ground wid bacca smoke,

Wid bacca smoke, wid bacca smoke,

When out of de ground dar heads do poke.

Way down in Alabam,

Dance & Chorus—Oh, ain’t I glad, etc.

Solo—

My wife’s dead, an I’ll get anuder one,

I’ll get anuder one, I’ll get anuder one,

My wife’s dead, and I’ll get anuder one,

Way down in Alabam.

Dance & Chorus—Oh, ain’t I glad, etc.

Solo—

I met a cat-fish in the ribber.

In the ribber, in the ribber,

I golly, it made dis nigger shiver

Way down in Alabam.

Dance & Chorus—Oh, ain’t I glad, etc.

Solo—

I steer’d right straight for de critter’s snout

De critter’s snout, de critter’s snout,

Turned de cat-fish inside out,

Way down in Alabam.

Dance & Chorus—Oh, ain’t I glad, etc.

Solo—

Oh, here we go now altogether,

All together, all together,

Nebber mind de wind or wedder,

Way down in Alabam,

Dance & Chorus—Oh, ain’t I glad.

Веселый бродяга Джек.

Here I am one, and still will be,

Who spend their days in pleasure,

The tailor’s bill is seldom fill’d,

For he’s never took my measure.

Chorus.—It must be while I do live,

And I must not give over,

Until old age doth me engage,

From being a jolly rover.

It’s on my vamps, I take my tramps,

My shoes being in a bad order,

My stockings down into the groun,

For I seldom wears a garter.

It must be, &c.

If I would dress up in fine clothes,

The ladies would adore me,

The fops of beaux that wear fine clothes,

They think to go before me,

It must be, &c.

It’s I can play at cards and dice,

Let me be drunk or sober,

Win or lose, I’ll have my dues,

For I’m Jolly Jack the Rover.

It must be, &c.

Three tons of wool through a comb I pul

All in the neatest order,

As white as milk and soft as silk,

To please the farmer’s daughter.

It must be, &c.

When my work’s done and finish’d off,

I’ll take it to the owner,

I have no doubt that she’s found out,

That I’m Jolly Jack the Rover.

It must be, &c,

When I am old, if I have gold,

I’ll set down by my table,

With you my dear, I’ll toast good beer

And drink while I am able.

It must be, &c.

When I am dead, and in my grave,

It’s then I must give over,

Let each jolly lass fill a parting glass,

And drink a health to Jack the Rover.

It must be, &c.

Кто-то ухаживает за кем-то.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

Somebody’s courting somebody

Somewhere or other to-night;

Somebody’s whispering to somebody,

Under the clear moonlight,

Near the bright river’s flow,

Running so still and slow;

Talking so soft and low,

She sits with somebody.

Somebody’s courting somebody

Somewhere or other to-night;

Somebody’s listening to somebody

Under the clear moonlight,

Under the clear moonlight.

Pacing the ocean shore,

Edged by the foaming roar,

Words never breathed before,

Sound sweet to somebody;

Under the maple-tree,

Deep though the shadow be,

Plain enough they can see,

Bright eyes has somebody.

Somebody’s courting somebody

Somewhere or other to-night;

Somebody’s listening to somebody

Under the clear moonlight,

Under the clear moonlight.

No one sits up to wait,

Though she is out so late,

All know she’s at the gate

Talking with somebody;

Two sitting side by side,

Float with the ebbing tide,

“Thus, dearest, may we glide

Through life,” says somebody.

Somebody’s courting somebody

Somewhere or other to-night;

Somebody’s listening to somebody

Under the clear moonlight,

Under the clear moonlight.

Маленькая низкая комната, где я ухаживал за своей женой.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publisher of the music.

My brow is seam’d o’er with the iron of years,

And the snow threads are gleaming the furrows among,

My eyes have grown dim in the shadow of tears,

Where the flowers of my soul have died as they sprung,

But memory bears to me on its broad wings

Bright images true of my earliest life,

And there, ’mid the fairest of all that is seen,

Is the little low room where I courted my wife,

Is the little low room where I courted my wife.

That low, humble room seem’d a palace of light,

As love held his torch, and illumined the scene,

With glory of state and profusion bedight,

Where I was a monarch, my darling a queen;

Ourselves were our subjects, pledged loyal were each,

And which should love best was our heartiest strife;

What tales could it tell, if possessing a speech,

That little low room where I courted my wife,

That little low room where I courted my wife.

Warm vows has it heard, the warmest e’er spoke,

Where lips have met lips in holy embrace,

Where feelings that never to utterance woke,

It saw oft reveal’d in a duplicate face;

The sweet hours hasten’d, how quickly they flew,

With fervent devotion and ecstasy rife!

Our hearts throbb’d the hours, but how I ne’er knew,

In the little low room where I courted my wife,

In the little low room where I courted my wife.

The romance of youth lent its rapturous zest,

And fairydom knew no delight like our own;

Our words were but few, but they were the best,

A dialect sweet for ourselves all alone.

So anxious to hear what the other might say,

We neither could utter a word for our life;

Thus the hours, in silence, pass’d quickly away

In the little low room where I courted my wife,

In the little low room where I courted my wife.

Long years have since pass’d o’er my darling and I,

The roses have vanish’d away from her cheek,

But the merciless moments, as onward they fly,

Leave love still undimm’d in her bosom so meek;

That love is the light to our faltering feet,

Our comfort in hours with sorrowing rife,

Our blessings in joy, as with joy ’twas replete,

In the little low room where I courted my wife,

In the little low room where I courted my wife.

Защищайте знамя.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

Stand by the flag, its folds have stream’d in glory,

To foes a fear, to friends a festal robe,

And spread in rythmic lines the sacred story,

Of freedom’s triumphs over all the globe;

Stand by the flag on land and ocean billow;

By it your fathers stood unmoved and true;

Living defended; dying, from their pillow,

With their last blessing, pass’d it on to you.

Stand by the flag, though death-shots round it rattle;

And underneath its waving folds have met,

In all the dread array of sanguine battle,

The quivering lance and glittering bayonet,

Stand by the flag, all doubt and treason scorning,

Believe with courage firm and faith sublime

That it will float until the eternal morning

Pales in its glories all the lights of time.

Девчонка с Юга.

My Massa had a color’d gal—

He brought her from the South,

Her hair it curl’d so very tight,

She could not shut her mouth,

Her eyes they were so very small,

They both ran into one,

And when a fly lit in her eye,

’Twas like a June-bug in the sun.

ПРИПЕВ.

Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah,

The gal from the South;

Her hair it curl’d so very tight,

She could not shut her mouth.

Her nose, it was so very long,

It turn’d up like a squash,

And when she got her dander up,

She made me laugh, by gosh!

Old Massa had no hooks or nails

Or nothing else like that,

So on this darkie’s nose he used

To hang his coat and hat.

Chorus.—Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah, &c.

One morning Massa going away,

He went to get his coat,

But neither hat nor coat was there,

For she had swallow’d both.

He took her to a tailor shop,

To have her mouth made small,

The lady took in one long breath,

And swallow’d tailor and all!

Chorus.—Ha, ha, ha, yah, yah, yah, &c.

Начинайте все, черномазые.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

White folks, I am goin’ to sing

A song dat am quite new,

Ob myself an’ banjo-string,

An’ you, an’ you, an’ you!

Oh, Sam, don’t laugh, I say,

Our strings will keep in tune,

Just listen to de banjo play

For de white folks ’round de room!

ПРИПЕВ.

Den commence you darkies all,

As loud as you can bawl!

Commence you darkies all, to-night.

Touch light de banjo-string,

An’ rattle de ole jaw-bone,

Oh, merrily sound de tamborine,

An’ make de fiddle hum;

An’ make de fiddle hum, old dad;

De way dem bones will shake,

Am a caution to all living niggs,

An’ a deff to rattlesnakes.

Den commence, &c.

“Oh, for a piano or guitar!”

I hear a fair one cry;

But when I hear dese instruments,

I tink I’d like to die.

I tink I’d like to die, I does,

I could lay me down to rest,

For music hab such ’lodious sounds

To soothe dis darkey’s breast.

Den commence, &c.

When I go to promenade,

I look so fine an’ gay,

I hab to take de dogs along

Te keep de gals away;

My busom am so full ob lub,

Dis darkey can not rest,

So I’ll bid you all good-by, at last,

An’ trabble to de West.

Den commence, &c.

Колумбия правит морем.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, owners of the copyright.

The pennon flutters in the breeze,

The anchor comes a-peak,

“Let fall sheet home,

The briny foam and ocean’s waste we seek;

The booming gun speaks our adieu.

Fast fades our native shore,

Columbia free shall rule the sea,

Britannia ruled of yore.

We go the tempest’s wrath to dare,

The billows’ madden’d play,

Now climbing high against the sky,

Now rolling low away;

While Yankee oak bears Yankee hearts,

Courageous to the core,

Columbia free shall rule the sea,

Britannia ruled of yore.

We’ll bear her flag around the world,

In thunder and in flame,

The sea-girt isles a wreath of smiles

Shall form around her name;

The winds shall pipe her pæans loud,

The billowy chorus roar

Columbia free shall rule the sea,

Britannia ruled of yore.

Я совсем не в своей тарелке.

Oh! I’m not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear,

I’m not myself at all,

Nothing caring, nothing knowing, ’tis after you I’m going,

Faith your shadow ’tis I’m growing, Molly dear, Molly dear,

And I’m not myself at all.

Th’other day I went confessin’, and I ask’d the father’s blessin’

But says I, “Don’t give me one entirely,

For I fretted so last year,

But the half o’ me is here,

So give the other half to Molly Brierly

Oh! I’m not myself at all.”

Oh! I’m not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear,

My appetite’s so small,

I once could pick a goose, but my buttons are no use,

Faith my tightest coat is loose, Molly dear, Molly dear,

And I’m not myself at all.

If thus it is I waste, you’d better dear make haste

Before your lover’s gone away entirely,

If you don’t soon change your mind

Not a bit o’ me you’ll find,

And what ’ud you think ’o that Molly Brierly?

Oh! I’m not myself at all.

Oh! my shadow on the wall, Molly dear, Molly dear,

Isn’t like myself at all.

For I’ve got so very thin, myself says ’tisn’t him,

But that purty girl so slim, Molly dear, Molly dear,

And I’m not myself at all.

If thus I smaller grow, all fretting dear for you,

’Tis you should make me up the deficiency,

So just let Father Taaf

Make you my better half,

And you will not the worse for the addition be;

Oh! I’m not myself at all.

I’ll be not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear,

’Till you my own I call.

Since a change o’er me there came, shure you might change your name,

And ’twould just come to the same, Molly dear, Molly dear,

Oh! ’twould just come the same;

For if you and I were one, all confusion would be gone,

And ’twould simplify the mather entirely,

And ’twould save us so much bother

When we’d both be one another,

So listen now to rayson, Molly Brierly,

Oh! I’m not myself at all.

Эрин — мой дом.

Oh, I have roam’d in many lands,

And many friends I’ve met;

Not one fair scene or kindly smile

Can this fond heart forget;

But I’ll confess that I’m content,

No more I wish to roam;

Oh, steer my bark to Erin’s isle,—

For Erin is my home.

Oh, steer my bark, &c.

If England were my place of birth,

I’d love her tranquil shore;

But if Columbia were my home,

Her freedom I’d adore.

Though pleasant days in both I pass’d,

I dream of days to come;

Oh, steer my bark to Erin’s isle,—

For Erin is my home.

Oh, steer my bark, &c.

Арфа, что некогда в залах Тары.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory’s thrill is o’er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright,

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now but seldom wakes;

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

Хорошо бы он решился, мама.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

I wish he would decide, Mamma,

I wish he would decide,

I’ve been a bridesmaid many time,

When shall I be a bride;

My cousin Anne and sister Fan,

The nuptial knot have tied,

Yet come what will I’m single still,

Yet come what will I’m single still,

I wish he would decide.

When shall I be a bride,

When shall I be a bride,

For come what will I’m single still,

I wish he would decide.

He takes me to the play, Mamma,

And brings me pretty books,

He woos me with his eyes, Mamma,

Such speechless things he looks.

Where e’er I roam, abroad, at home,

He lingers by my side,

Yet come what will I’m single still,

Yet come what will I’m single still,

I wish he would decide.

When shall I be a bride,

When shall I be a bride,

For come what will I’m single still,

I wish he would decide.

I’ve thrown out many a hint, Mamma,

I’ve spoke of other beaux,

I’ve talk’d about domestic life,

And sung “They don’t propose.”

Then if he means to break, Mamma,

My passion and my pride,

Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret,

Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret,

Although he won’t decide,

Although he won’t decide,

Although he won’t decide,

Unconquer’d yet I’ll scorn regret,

Although he won’t decide.

Мы были мальчиками и девочками вместе.

We were boys and girls together

In that happy time,

When the spirit’s light shone brightest

And the heart was in its prime;

Ere the morning light was clouded,

That beam’d upon our youth,

And chill of worldly knowledge

Had blighted childhood’s truth.

We were boys and girls together,

When the step was firm and light,

When the voice was clear and ringing,

And the laughing eyes were bright;

Then our love sought no concealment,

And our bosoms knew no art,

And the sunshine of our childhood

Cast no shadow on the heart.

Пародия на «Ферму дяди Сэма».

Of all the reformations, in the east or in the west,

Oh, the temperance reformation is the greatest and the best,

We invite the whole creation our pledge to come and sign,

And leave off drinking brandy, rum, cider, beer, and wine.

Припев.

Then come along, come along, make no delay,

Come sign the temperance pledge, sign it right away,

For if you do but keep it, you need not fear alarm

But you will soon be rich enough to buy a handsome farm.

The temperance cause is spreading o’er this our native land,

And Alchy with his subjects know not where to make a stand.

His army is decreasing, and soon there’ll be but few,

Who to oppose the temperance cause on Alchy’s smiles get blue.

The drunkard is so foolish that he will money waste,

On liquor, when there’s water more pleasant to the taste;

The water is much cheaper, and much more healthy too,

And never makes a man a fool—which liquors often do.

It never yet caused people to quarrel and to fight,

Or come home intoxicated at twelve o’clock at night.

Cold water never caused man in the gutter to be found,

And never, as I know of, to feel upward for the ground.

Now if you only hasten our pledge to come and sign,

To leave off drinking brandy, rum, cider, gin, and wine,

You can not help but prosper in your business through life,

Provided you have with you a nice teetotal wife.

Хотел бы я снова стать мальчиком.

Oh, would I were a boy again,

When life seem’d form’d of sunny years,

And all the heart then knew of pain

Was swept away in transient tears,

Was swept away in transient tears.

When ev’ry dream hope whisper’d then,

My fancy deem’d was only truth;

Oh, would that I could know again,

The happy visions of my youth.

Oh, would I were a boy again, &c.

’Tis vain to mourn that years have shown

How false these fairy visions were,

Or murmur that mine eyes have known

The burden of a fleeting tear;

But still the heart will fondly cling

To hopes no longer prized as truth,

And memory still delights to bring

The happy visions of my youth.

Oh, would I were a boy again, &c.

Хотел бы я снова стать девочкой.

Oh, would I were a girl again,

With heart and spirit free,

To gayly rove the village plain,

Or singing o’er the lea.

Then can you wonder if I sigh

And sadly thus deplore,

To wish for days, alas! gone by,

And be a girl once more.

I gayly trod the mountain side,

Knew naught of care or gloom,

Its purple bells brought home with pride,

To deck my mother’s room,

Then can you wonder if I sigh, &c.

Сын фермера.

The sun had gone down behind yon hill,

And o’er yon dreary moor,

When, weary and lame, a boy there came

Up to a Farmer’s door,—

Saying, can you tell me, if any there be,

Can give to me employ,

For to plow, for to mow, for to reap, for to sow,

For to be a Farmer’s Boy.

My father is dead, my mother is left

With her five children small,

And what is worse, for mother still,

I’m the eldest of them all;

Though small I am, I fear no work,

If you will give me employ.

For to plow, &c.

One favor yet I ask, If you can not me employ,

That is to shelter me this one night

From the cold winter’s blast;

At the break of day, I will trudge away,

Elsewhere to seek employ,

For to plow, &c.

The farmer says, “We will try the lad,

No further let him seek.”

Oh, yes, dear father, his daughter cried,

While the tears rolled down her cheek;

For him that can labor it is hard to want,

Or elsewhere to seek employ

For to plow, &c.

At length of years this boy grew up,

This good old farmer died,

He left the boy the farm he had,

And his daughter for his bride.

The boy that was, is a farmer now,

And he oft times thinks with joy,

On the happy, happy day, he came that way,

For to be a Farmer’s Boy.

Песня фермера.

I have cattle that feed in the valley,

And herds that graze on the hill,

And I pride in the fruits of my labor,

For I’m lord of the land that I till,

I have plow’d the rough hill and the meadow

Till feeble with age and with toil,

And I know before long that another

Shall reap the new fruits of the soil.

For the son that hath toil’d for me ever,

And faithfully stood by my side,

Hath a hand that shall gather the harvest,

When his feeble old father hath died.

And the daughter so kind to her mother,

Shall share with him all I possess,

For I feel that they love me as father,

And welcome my tender caress.

There’s my faithful, my trusting companion,

My kind-hearted dear loving wife;

I have toil’d for her comfort with pleasure,

For such was the pride of my life.

And still in my manhood I love her,

For her kind and affectionate care,

And all that the earth can afford me,

With her I most willingly share.

Они не хотят видеть меня дома.

They don’t wish me at home, though they miss me,

’Twould be a great assurance, I fear,

To think for a moment some soft one

Would say, “I wish Toby were here.”

Although the poor tom-cat at the fireside

May think of poor me as I roam,

Oh yes, I’d be green beyond measure

To think they do wish me at home.

Dark nights were my joy for this reason:

Some orchard I’d visit alone;

Next morning some farmer would mention

My name with some fruit that was gone.

But now fruits are safe from all danger,

None’s miss’d since poor Toby’s away;

And the neighbors all wish I may never

Return from the place where I stay.

I forgot not my place at the table,

When “grub-time” was fast drawing nigh;

Then the “vittles” that lay all around me

Disappear’d in the wink of an eye.

Now, when my poor supper is over,

I spread myself out for a snore,

Oh! I dream of the fruits in the garden,

And think myself happy once more.

Oh! I wish I was home, though they quiz me

And jaw me from morning till night;

I’d finger the peach-trees around me—

The farmers should stare with affright.

Although they would give me no welcome,

I’d not be less bold than before;

Their fruit they shall miss by the bushel.

Because I am with them once more.

Том, разбивший сердце любовник.

I’m lonesome since I cross’d the saes,

My mind is never aisy;

No mortal sowl can give relaif—

In troth, I’m getting crazy.

The burning tears roll down me chakes,

In faith, they nearly blind me;

I weep and sigh, both night and day,

For the Girl I left behind me.

The lovely lass I courted long,

She lives in Tipperary;

Her eyes were like the diamonds bright,

And they call’d her black-eyed Mary.

In summer’s night I took delight,

Her beauty so inclined me,

A thousand crowns I’d give to see

The Girl I left behind me.

In foreign lands compell’d to roam,

Yet often think of Mary:

The black-eyed lass that won my heart

That lives in Tipperary.

On distant shores I weep and sigh,

Without a friend to mind me;

Bad luck unto the ship that sail’d

And left the Girl behind me.

If e’er I land on Erin’s shore,

I’ll haste to Tipperary;

Within me arms I will embrace

Me lovely black-eyed Mary.

With her I’ll dwell while life shall last,

For she’d roam the world to find me,

From Mary I’ll not wander more,

The Girl I left behind me.

Терри О'Рейли.

Sure, Terry O’Reilly, I’ve waited, you know,

And sure you’re not coming like my own thrue beau;

I’ve look’d through the windy till each little pane,

Is near hid by my tears like a shower of rain.

Och! hone! Terry, come soon!

Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.

Sweet Terry O’Reilly, why keep me sighing?

If I tarry longer, of grief I’ll be dying;

Now, Terry, pray haste, and this heart give relief,

Or faith, my dear Terry, I’ll soon die with grief.

Och! hone! Terry, come soon,

Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.

Dear Terry O’Reilly, I ne’er was a flirt,

Still Terence is handsome, and he’ll gain my heart;

Sure some one I must have, whose kindness will prove,

He’s devoted to me, and faith him I’ll love.

Och! hone! Terry, come soon,

Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.

Now, Terry O’Reilly, I am tired of sighing,

I’m wearied to death, sure, with fretting and crying;

I’ll marry to spite you, ma cushla, and part,

With love for you, Terry, and so break my heart.

Och! hone! Terry, come soon,

Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.

Воскресные ухаживания.

Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,

With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;

Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;

Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!

ПРИПЕВ.

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,

Sparking Sunday night?

How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,

How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!

Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?

Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,

Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.

“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;

Bless me, DON’T we do it—sparking Sunday night?

One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,

You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,

She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;

Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?

But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,

As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go has COME.

You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”

And wonder if IT ever—sparked on Sunday night!

One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;

But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;

Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,

Don’t you wish EACH DAY was only Sunday night?

Ответ милой Кэти.

Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,

There my smiles you may ever more behold.

I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.

Or that your love had ever grown cold.

Oh no, I could not believe

That my Dermot was untrue.

No love was like the love of Katy Darling,

Search the world you will find very few.

I’m ever near you, dearest.

When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy Darling

Is watching by her dear Dermot’s side,

Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,

Her spirit will ever be your guide.

When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,

Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,

Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,

This bright world is free from all care.

By my grave I see you weeping

In the silent starry light,

I long to have you with your Katy Darling,

Happy you’d be with her this night.

I hear you dear Dermot.

And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,

She will meet you till you lie by her side,

Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,

Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.

Ветка шиллелах.

Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;

He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;

With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.

His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,

No malice or hatred is there to be found;

He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights

For love—all for love—for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.

Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?

An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;

His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,

A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;

He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,

He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,

His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,

From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,

Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.

To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,

A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?

“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,

Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.

May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,

Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.

United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,

May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine

Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

Повозка с низкой спинкой.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,

’Twas on a market day;

A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay.

But when that hay was blooming grass,

And deck’d with flowers of spring,

No flowers were there that could compare

With the lovely girl I sing,

As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,

Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,

But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.

In battle’s wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars,

With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,

Of death in warlike scars;

But Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,

That knock men down in the market-town,

As right and left they fly;

As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart

That is hit from the Low Back’d Car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese;

But the scores of hearts she slaughters,

By far outnumber these.

While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,

Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming God of Love.

As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,

And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,

As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.

I’d rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,

With a lady for my bride.

For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,

While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist.

As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,

Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,

As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.

Бедные старые девы.

Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,

What will become of us, poor old maids?

Fourscore and four of us,

Without a penny in our purse,

What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,

Nursing cats is all we do,

Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.

All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,

All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,

All alone we go to bed,

And not a word to us is said,

And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.

We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,

We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,

We’re all in a willing mind,

If the men would be so kind,

As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.

And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,

And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,

And if there’s any in this room,

I hope they’ll marry very soon,

And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.

О Боже! Сохрани моряка.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.

O God! preserve the mariner,

When o’er the troubled deep

The rolling thunder-lightning flash,

And howling tempests sweep;

When like a reed the tall mast shakes,

And human art is vain,

O God! restore the mariner

To home, dear home again.

The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,

But dreams disturb her sleep,

She starts to hear the hollow wind,

And turns aside to weep;

She clasps her baby, and she prays,

Through tears, like falling rain,

“O God! restore the mariner,

To home, dear home again.”

The widow for her darling child,

Her bosom’s only joy,

Invokes the Power that rules the storm,

For blessings on her boy.

When ruin lurketh in the cloud,

And death sweeps o’er the main,

O God! restore the mariner,

To home, dear home again.

Снова стать веселой цыганкой.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

A merry Gipsy girl again,

I’m free to rove at will:

The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,

The valley and the hill

How poor the proudest roof ye boast

To that high-arched dome,

Whose boundless circle makes me think

The whole wide world my home.

Here none can bar the free fresh air,

Nor mete out heaven’s light,

Nor make the glorious day appear

Too near akin to night.

Amid the beauties of the mead

My summer days are spent,

And joyfully the stars look down

Upon my Gipsy tent;

And joyfully the stars look down

Upon my Gipsy tent.

I wander freely as the fawn

Which hath not learnt to fear

The death-cry of the hunter’s voice

Resounding far and near;

And bounding through the woods

I feel as if I too could soar,

Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,

And sing for evermore!

Come out, ye pent-up toilers!

Come, from city dark and drear,

And see what gladness Nature has

In all her beauties here;

And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,

Your time has well been spent,

And wish that all the world

Could be, one happy Gipsy tent;

And wish that all the world

Could be, one happy Gipsy tent.

Позволь мне поцеловать его за его мать.

Let me kiss him for his mother,

Let me kiss his youthful brow;

I will love him for his mother,

And seek her blessing now.

Kind friends have soothed his pillow,

Have watch’d his every care;

Beneath the weeping willow,

Oh, lay him gently there.

ПРИПЕВ.

Sleep, dearest, sleep;

I love you as a brother;

Kind friends around you weep,

I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,

Let me kiss him for his mother,

What though left a stranger here?

She has loved him as none other,

I feel her blessing near.

Though cold that form lies sleeping,

Sweet angels watch around;

Dear friends are near thee weeping;

Oh, lay him gently down.

Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,

Or perchance a sister dear;

If a father or a brother,

I know their blessing’s here.

Then kiss him for his mother:

’Twill soothe her after-years;

Farewell, dear stranger brother,

Our requiem, our tears.

Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Мой родной очаг.

Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.

Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as,

’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws,

At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been,

Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een,

ПРИПЕВ.

But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,

As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.

Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,

Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;

Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,

I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.

Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,

But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;

O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,

There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.

Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

Могила индейского воина.

Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,

Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiver

Where in his pride he roved in his childhood

Fought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.

In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,

Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;

Where the pale foe and he struggled together,