Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.
Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;
And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.
But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,
Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.
Индейский охотник.
Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?
Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze
Bear riches for him alone—
And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,
Which the white man calls his own.
Yha, yha!
Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?
Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!
Yha, yha, yha!
The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—
There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.
The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,
And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.
Yha, yha!
Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.
Yha, yha, yha!
Молли Баун.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
Or lonely waiting here for you—
While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they have nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,
But their mother, Nature, kept them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash’d in dew.
Oh, Molly, &c.
The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine.
The wicked watch dog here is snarling—
He takes me for a thief, d’ye see?
For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be.
Oh, Molly, &c.
Нора, гордость Килдэра.
As beauteous as Flora is charming young Norah,
The joy of my heart and the Pride of Kildare,
I ne’er will deceive her, for sadly ’twould grieve her,
To find that I sigh’d for another less fair.
Припев.
Her heart with truth teeming, her eye with smiles beaming,
What mortal could injure a blossom so fair.
Oh, Norah, dear Norah, the Pride of Kildare.
Where e’er I may be, love, I’ll ne’er forget thee, love,
Though beauties may smile and try to ensnare,
Yet nothing shall ever, my heart from thine sever,
Dear Norah, sweet Norah, the Pride of Kildare.
Долина Хейзел.
Copied by permission of Wm. Hall & Son, 543 Broadway, N. Y., Publishers of the music and owners of the copyright.
In the Hazel Dell my Nelly’s sleeping,
Nelly loved so long,
And my lonely, lonely watch I’m keeping,
Nelly lost and gone;
Here in moon-light often we have wandered,
Through the silent shade,
Now where leafy branches drooping,
Downward little Nelly’s laid.
ПРИПЕВ.
All alone my watch I’m keeping,
In the Hazel Dell,
For my darling Nelly’s near me sleeping,
Nelly dear, farewell.
In the Hazel Dell my Nelly’s sleeping,
Where the flowers wave,
And the silent stars are nightly weeping,
O’er poor Nelly’s grave,
Hopes that once my bosom fondly cherished,
Smile no more for me,
Every dream of joy alas has perished,
Nelly dear, with thee.
All alone my watch, &c.
Now I’m weary, friendless and forsaken,
Watching here alone,
Nelly, thou no more will fondly cheer me,
With thy loving tone,
Yet forever shall thy gentle image,
In my memory dwell,
And my tears thy lonely grave shall moisten,
Nelly dear, farewell.
All alone my watch, &c.
Дом, милый дом.
’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 ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home.
I gaze on the moon, as I trace the drear wild,
And feel that my parent now thinks of her child;
She looks on that moon from our own cottage door,
Through woodbines whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home.
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain,
Oh, give me my lowly, thatch’d cottage again;
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home.
Дом моего детства.
My boyhood’s home! I see thy hills—
I see thy valley’s changeful green,
And manhood’s eye a tear-drop fills,
Though years have roll’d since thee I’ve seen.
I come to thee from war’s dread school,
A warrior stern o’er thee to rule;
But while I gaze on each loved plain,
I feel I am a boy again.
To the war-steed adieu—to the trumpet farewell—
To the pomp of the palace—the proud, gilded dome;
For the green scenes of childhood, I bid ye farewell!
The soldier returns to his boyhood’s loved home.
My boyhood’s home, &c.
Старое церковное кладбище.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.
Oh, come with me to the old kirk-yard,
I well know the path through the soft, green sward;
Friends slumber there we were wont to regard,
We’ll trace out their names in the old kirk-yard.
Oh, mourn not for them, their grief is o’er,
Oh, weep not for them, they weep no more.
For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard,
Their pillow may be in the old kirk-yard.
I know it is vain when friends depart,
To breathe kind words to a broken heart;
I know that the joy of life seems marr’d;
When we follow them home to the old kirk-yard.
But were I at rest beneath yon tree,
Why should’st thou weep, dear love, for me?
I’m way-worn and sad, ah, why then retard,
The rest that I seek in the old kirk-yard?
Я свободен.
I am a freeman! ’Tis my boast and my pride,
The blue sky is o’er me, the dark soil beneath,
And spreading around is the wilderness wide;
My bath is the lake, my couch is the heath,
My rod and my rifle my larder provide—
I am a freeman! ’Tis my boast and my pride,
I am a freeman! True freedom is mine;
I slay when I choose, yet spare when I will;
For my food use the bullet, or cast out the line,
But never, like fools, from wantonness kill.
My “roof-tree” is lofty, my dining-hall wide—
I am a freeman! ’Tis my boast and my pride.
The eagle above me soars lofty and free,
He knows that I’ll speed no bullet at him—
He is game for a tyrant, but never for me,
While he sits on his nest on that old pine limb.
A life in the woods some men may deride,
But freedom is there, my boast and my pride.
I roam through the wild wood o’er skim or the lake,
My wreaths are of laurel, my plumes never fade;
I sleep when the night falls, with the dawn am awake,
To hunt the red deer while they feed in the glade.
I’m joyous and free as a bird of the air,—
A son of the forest, a stranger to care.
Судно, на абордаж!
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.
When o’er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we’ve cheerless gone,
Oh! they who’ve felt it, know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet!
Sparkling on deck is every eye;
“Ship a-hoy! ship a-hoy!” our joyful cry.
When answering back we faintly hear,
“Ship a-hoy! what cheer! what cheer!’”
Now sails aback we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends at home;
But soon, too soon, we part in pain,
To sail o’er silent seas again,
To sail o’er silent seas again.
When o’er the ocean’s dreary plain,
With toil her destined port to gain,
Our gallant ship has near’d the strand,
We claim our own, our native land,
We claim our own, our native land;
Sweet is the seaman’s joyous shout,
“Land ahead! land ahead! look out! look out!”
Around on deck we gayly fly,
“Land ahead! land ahead!” with joy we cry;
Yon beacon light directs our way,
While grateful vows to Heaven we pay,
And soon our long-lost joys renew,
And bid the boisterous main adieu,
And bid the boisterous main adieu.
Песня Бланш Альпен.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
You speak of sunny skies to me—
Of orange grove and bower—
Of winds that wake soft melody
From leaf and blooming flower;
And you may prize those far-off skies,
But tempt not me to roam;
In sweet content my days are spent,
Then wherefore leave my home?
In sweet content my days are spent,
Then wherefore leave my home?
You tell me oft of rivers bright,
Where golden galleys float;
But have you seen our lakes by night,
Or sail’d in Alpine boat?
You speak of lands where hearts and hands
Will greet me as I come,
But though I find true hearts and kind,
They’re kinder still at home.
But though I find true hearts and kind,
They’re kinder still at home.
Had you been rear’d by Alpine hills,
Or lived in Alpine dells,
You’d prize, like me, our mountain rills,
Nor fear the torrent swells;
It matters not how drear the spot
How proud or poor the dome,
Love still retains some deathless chains,
That binds the heart to home.
Love still retains some deathless chains,
That binds the heart to home.
У печальных морских волн.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.
By the sad sea-waves
I listen, while they moan
A lament o’er graves
Of hope and pleasure gone.
I am young, I was fair,
I had once not a care
From the rising of the morn
To the setting of the sun.
Yet I pine like a slave,
By the sad sea-wave.
Come again bright days
Of hope and pleasure gone;
Come again, bright days,
Come again, come again.
From my care last night,
By holy sleep beguiled,
In the fair dream-light
My home upon me smiled.
Oh, how sweet ’mid the dew,
Every flower that I knew
Breathed a gentle welcome back
To the worn and weary child!
I wake in my grave
By the sad sea-wave;
Come again, dear dream,
So peacefully that smiled,
Come again, dear dream,
Come again, come again.
Дневной свет на море.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
Daylight is on the sea!
Love, do not stay;
Land is no place for me,
I must away!
My bark is on the waves,
My boat ashore;
The surge its broadside laves,
While sleeps each oar.
ПРИПЕВ.
Daylight is on the sea,
Land is no place for me;
Come away, love, come away, love,
I dare no longer stay;
Come away, love, away, love,
I dare no longer stay.
Come away, away, away, away, away,
I dare no longer stay,
Away, away, away, away, away,
I dare no longer stay.
Daylight plays o’er the deep,
Like childhood’s smile;
Blue waves and hush’d winds sleep,
Enchain’d awhile!
My bark is on the waves,
My boat ashore,
The surge its broadside laves,
While sleeps each oar.
Daylight is on the sea, &c.
Кейт когда-то была маленькой девочкой.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
Kate was once a little girl,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Eyes of blue, and teeth of pearl,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
In the spring, when school was done,
Full of life and full of fun,
O’er the hills away she’d run,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Gentle breezes all the day,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Through her sunny locks would play,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Still on her cheek as brightly plays
The sunshine of her youthful days,
And still as sweet her girlish ways,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Kate’s a little older now,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Still as fair her radiant brow,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
All her thoughts are pure and bright,
As the stars we see at night,
Shining with a joyous light,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Kate will always be the same,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
She’ll never change except in name,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
So gently time shall steal away,
She’ll always be as bright and gay,
As when she laugh’d in girlhood’s day,
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Китти Тиррелл.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
You’re looking as fresh as the morn, darling,
You’re looking as bright as the day;
But while on your charms I’m dilating,
You’re stealing my poor heart away.
But keep it and welcome, mavourneen,
Its loss I’m not going to mourn;
Yet one heart’s enough for a body,
So pray give me yours in return.
Mavourneen, mavourneen,
Oh! pray give me yours in return.
I’ve built me a neat little cot, darling,
I’ve pigs and potatoes in store;
I’ve twenty good pounds in the bank, love,
And may be, a pound or two more.
It’s all very well to have riches,
But I’m such a covetous elf,
I can’t help still sighing for something,
And, darling, that something’s yourself.
Mavourneen, mavourneen,
And that something, you know, is yourself.
You’re smiling, and that’s a good sign, darling;
Say “Yes,” and you’ll never repent;
Or, if you would rather be silent,
Your silence I’ll take for consent.
That good-natured dimple’s a tell-tale,
Now all that I have is your own,
This week you may be Kitty Tyrrell,
Next week you’ll be Mistress Malone.
Mavourneen, mavourneen,
You’ll be my own Mistress Malone.
В миле от города Эдинборо.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
’Twas within a mile of Edinboro’ town,
In the rosy time of the year,
Sweet flowers bloom’d and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo’d his dear;
Bonny Jocky blithe and gay,
Kiss’d sweet Jenny makin’ hay,
The lassie blush’d and frowning cried,
No no, it will not do, I can not, can not, wonnot, wonnot, monnot buckle too.
Jocky was a wag that never would wed,
Though long he had follow’d the lass,
Contented she earn’d and eat her brown bread,
And merrily turn’d up the grass.
Bonny Jocky blithe and free,
Won her heart right merrily;
Yet still she blush’d and frowning cried,
No no, it will not do, I can not, &c.
But when he vow’d he would make her his bride.
Though his flocks and herds were not few
She gave him her hand and a kiss beside,
And vow’d she’d forever be true.
Bonny Jocky blithe and free;
Won her heart right merrily;
At church she no more frowning cried.
No, no, it will not do, I can not, &c.
Хотел бы я быть с тобой.
Would I were with thee, ev’ry day and hour
Which now I pass so sadly far from thee,
Would that my form possess’d the magic power
To follow where my heavy heart would be;
Whate’er thy lot o’er land or sea,
Would I were with thee eternally.
Would I were with thee, when the world forgetting
Thy weary limbs upon the turf are thrown,
While bright and red our evening sun is setting,
And all thy thoughts belong to heaven alone;
While happy dreams thy thoughts employ,
Would I were with thee in thy joy.
Would I were with thee, when no longer feigning
The hurried laugh, that stifles back a sigh,
When thy young lip pours forth its sweet complaining,
And tears have quench’d the light within thine eye;
When all seems dark and sad below,
Would I were with thee in thy woe.
Would I were with thee, when the day is breaking,
And when the moon has lit the lonely sea,
Or when in crowds some careless note awaking,
Speaks to thy heart in memory of me:
In joy, or pain, by sea, or shore,
Would I were with thee evermore.
Старый дядя Эдвард.
There formerly might have been seen an aged colored individual,
Whose cognomen was Uncle Edward,
He departed this life some time since, some time since,
And he had no capillary substance on the summit of his cranium,
On the place designed by nature for the capillary to vegetate.
ПРИПЕВ.
Then lay down the agricultural implements,
Allow the violin and the bow to be pendent on the wall.—
For there is no more physical energy to be displayed by indigent aged Edward,
For he has departed to the abode designated by a kind Providence for all pious, humane, and benevolent individuals.
Uncle Edward had digits equal in longitude to the
Bamboo formation which springs so spontaneously on the bank of the Southern Mississippi,
And he had no oculars with which to observe
The beauties of nature,
And he had no dental formations with which to
Masticate the Indian meal cake,
Consequently he was forced to permit the
Indian meal cake to pass by with impunity.
Chorus.—Then lay down, &c.
When Uncle Ned relinquished his hold on vitality,
His master was exceedingly grieved,
And the lachrymal poured down his cheeks similar to the rain from heaven,
For he knew that the old man was laid beneath terra firma, terra firma,
He would never have the pleasure of beholding the physiognomy of the aged Edward any more.
Chorus.—Then lay down, &c.
Дядя Габриэль.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
I was gwan to Sandy Point de oder arternoon,
Dis nigger’s heel cum’b out ob joint a running arter a coon;
I thought I see’d him on a log, a lookin’ mighty quar
Wen I cum’d up to de log, de coon he wasn’t dar.
ПРИПЕВ.
Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, now come along, oh do;
Oh, what will uncle Gabriel say? ya eh eh eh ya eh eh eh;
What will Uncle Gabriel say, why Jinny can’t you come along too?
I blow’d de horn, I call’d de dog, and tell him for to bark;
I hunt all night in de hollow log, but de coon he still keep dark;
At last I hear de ole coon sneeze, de dog he fly around,
And on to him he den did freeze, and pull him to the ground.
Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c.
De coon he lay upon de ground, as stiff as any post;
I knock him den upon de head, and he gabe up de ghost;
I took him to de old log house, as soon as he suspire;
He look’d just like a little mouse, and we roast him on de fire.
Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c.
De niggers dey come all around, and kick up a debil of a splutter.
Dey eat de coon and clar de ground, to dance de chicken flutter,
Dey dance all night till de broke of day, to a tune on de old banjo,
And den dey all did gwan away, before de chicken crow.
Chorus.—Oh, come along, my Sandy boy, &c.
Он привел ее к алтарю.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
He led her to the altar,
But the bride was not his chosen;
He led her with a hand as cold
As though its pulse had frozen.
Flowers were crush’d beneath his tread,
A gilded dome was o’er him;
But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale,
As the marble steps before him.
ПРИПЕВ.
He led her to the altar,
But the bride was not his chosen;
He led her with a hand as cold
As though its pulse had frozen.
His soul was sadly dreaming,
Of one he had hoped to cherish;
Of a name and form that the sacred rites,
Beginning, told must perish.
He gazed not on the stars and gems
Of those who circled round him;
But trembled as his lips gave forth
The words that falsely bound him.
He led her to the altar, &c.
Many a heart was praising,
Many a hand was proffer’d;
But mournfully he turn’d him
From the greeting that was offer’d.
Despair had fix’d upon his brow