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lee's songbook

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Mac Dil Darrel
Sung by Charley Fox, with unbounded applause.

Dar was an old darkey libed out in de west,
Mac dil darrel;
He wore a red coat and a blue satin vest,
Mac dil darrel darrel mac day.
He smokes his segar and he drinks his good wine,
Mac dil darrel;
His shirts dey are made out of Kentucky twine.
Mac dil darrel darrel mac day.

Chorus
Mac dil darrel darrel mac dil darrel day,
Darrel mac dil darrel darrel mac day,
Mac dil darrel darrel mac dil darrel day,
Darrel mac dil darrel darrel mac day.

De gals dey all said now dat he was de man,
Says one to me, "Now I'll hab him if I can,
In de mornin' he put some cologne on my hair,
Den I could take a walk out in de air."

Dis handsome young man has got six thousand dollars,
He spends it as free as de May ob de flowers;
Ob money he says he has got quite enough,
Because it is right on de Bank ob True Love.

MAC DIL DARREL NO. 2.

When he walks in the street he has got so much grace,
De gals dey all say he's a man of fine taste,
With his high-standin' collar and glove in his hand,
He's a seventy-fust cousin of the noble Buchan.

Mac dil darrel darrel mac dil darrel day,
Darrel mac dil darrel darrel mac day,
Mac dil darrel darrel mac dil darrel day,
Darrel mac dil darrel darrel mac day.

He's traveled the world over to Arkansaw,
His gran'mother lives right up in Saginaw;
She's got seven hundred thousand acres of land,
She hoes her own corn an' she works like a man.

She raises a bushel to every acre,
It's neither of corn or of the potato;
This land 'tis covered all over wid logs,
The principal production is the green-eyed bull-frogs.

Andrews, Printer, 38 Chatham, Street N. Y.


MANY T'OUSAND GONE
Slave Song

No more auction block for me; no more; no more.
No more auction block for me - many t'ousand gone.

No more peck of corn for me; no more; no more.
No more peck of corn for me - many t'ousand gone.

No more driver's lash for me; no more; no more.
No more driver's lash for me - many t'ousand gone.

No more pint of salt for me; no more; no more.
No more pint of salt for me - many t'ousand gone.

No more hundred lash for me; no more; no more.
No more hundred lash for me - many t'ousand gone.

No more Mistress' call for me; no more; no more.
No more Mistress' call for me - many t'ousand gone.


MARY AND SAMBO

To the tune of A LITTLE MORE CIDER

I knew a white gal of sweet sixteen, as near as I can figure,
Who slighted all her dashing beaux - and fell in love with a nigger.
The blackest kind of a nigger, a dreadful ugly nigger;
A sleepy, lazy, dirty, crazy, cotton-picking nigger.

But soon her father found it out, and looking at his daughter,
He swore before the night he'd bring a black sweep to his daughter.
He swore he'd thrash the nigger, the dreadful ugly nigger;
The sleepy, lazy, dirty, crazy, cotton-picking nigger.

Then Mary, she began to cry, and put her arms akimbo,
And sniggered in her father's face, "I'm bound to marry Sambo.
Suppose he is a nigger, a poor degraded nigger;
I truly swear no hand shall tear your Mary from her nigger."

The nigger's love was strong enough, but couldn't stand a licking;
He thought that picking such a muss was worse than cotton picking.
The poor deluded nigger, the unromantic nigger;
Not all the love of turtle-dove could change the frightened nigger.

He knelt at Mary's father's feet and said he would resign her;
That she could marry when she pleased, and he would marry Dinah.
The prudent, cautious nigger, the compromising nigger,
The point he saw of social law: that "nig' must marry nigger.

Jackson, Printer, 190 Houston Street.


Mary Had A Little Lamb
To the tune of BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM

Mary had a little lamb,
'Twas always on the go.
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
So she staked it on a grassy slope
Along the Shenando',
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

Chorus
Hurrah for Mary! Hurrah for the lamb!
Hurrah for the sojers, who didn't care a damn,
For we'll rally round the flag, boys,
We'll rally once again,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

And frequently she turned it loose
Upon the bank to play,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
The sojers eyed it from the shore

In a kleptomaniac way,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

"What makes the men love mutton so?"
The colonel he did cry,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
" 'Cause mutton makes the whiskers grow,"
The sojers did reply,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

lt swam across the Shenando',
Our pickets saw it too,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
And speedily it simmered down
Into a mutton stew,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

And Mary never more did see
Her darling little lamb,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
For the boys in blue they chawed it up,
And didn't give a damn,
Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.



18th Century Mary Magdalene &
The Shroud Of Turin


MARY WORE THREE LINKS OF CHAIN
Negro Spiritual

Mary wore three links of chain, Mary wore three links of chain;
Mary wore three links of chain, and every link was Jesus' name;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

God told Moses what to do, God told Moses what to do;
God told Moses what to do to lead the Hebrew children through;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

If I could, I surely would; if I could, I surely would;
If I could, I surely would stand on the rock where Moses stood;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Moses stood on the Red Sea shore, Moses stood on the Red Sea shore;
Moses stood on the Red Sea shore, smote the water with a great big board;

Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Red Sea parted before their eyes, Red Sea parted before their eyes;
Red Sea parted before their eyes, Hebrews cross'd that Red Sea dry;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Pharaoh's army, it got drowned; Pharaoh's army, it got drowned;
Pharaoh's army, it got drowned; Red Sea covered back its old ground;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Moses was first to prove the notion, Moses was first to prove the notion;
Moses was first to prove the notion folks is safer with the armies in the ocean;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.

Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

I'm on my way to the freedom land, I'm on my way to the freedom land;
I'm on my way to the freedom land, Lord God Almighty hold my hand;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Oh, I don't know but I been told, oh, I don't know but I been told;
Oh, I don't know but I been told streets in heaven paved in gold;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

The devil's got a slippery shoe, the devil's got a slippery shoe;
The devil's got a slippery shoe - if you don't watch, he'll slip it on you;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Here comes ......., two by three, here comes ......, two by three;
Here comes ....., two by three, devil get my brother but he can't get me;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.

Mary wore three links of chain, Mary wore three links of chain;
Mary wore three links of chain, every link was Freedom's name;
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.
Hold on. Hold on.
Keep your hand on that plow - hold on.


MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND

James R. Randal
1861

The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland, my Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland, my Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore that flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland, my Maryland!
My mother state, to thee I kneel, Maryland, my Maryland!
For life or death, for woe or weal, thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland, my Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland, my Maryland!
Remember Caroll's sacred trust; remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland.

Come! 'Tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland, my Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland, my Maryland!
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, with Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless love and dashing may, Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland, my Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland, my Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain, "Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain;
Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! For thy shield is brighter and strong, Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! For thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland, my Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng, stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland, my Maryland!
But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland, my Maryland!
But lo! There surges forth a shriek, from hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll, Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland, my Maryland!
Better the fire upon the roll, better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland.

I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland, my Maryland!
The "old line's" bugle, fife and drum, Maryland, my Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! She spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland!


Maryland! My Maryland! - A Parody
LOUISVILLE DAILY JOURNAL
October 6, 1862.
" MY MARYLAND". - Most of our readers have head of this famous rebel
song, but few of them perhaps have read it. Here it is, slightly altered to
suit "the situation" :

The rebel feet are on our shore, Maryland! My Maryland!
I smell 'em half a mile and more, Maryland! My Maryland!
Their shoeless hordes are at my door, their drunken Generals on my floor,
What now can sweeten Baltimore?  Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to our nose's dire appeal, Maryland! My Maryland!
Oh, unwashed rebs, to you we kneel, Maryland! My Maryland!
If you can't purchase soap, oh steal that precious article - I feel
Like scratching from the head to heel. Maryland! My Maryland!


You're covered thick with mud and dust, Maryland! My Maryland!
As though you'd been upon a bust, Maryland! My Maryland!
Remember, it is scarcely just to have a filthy fellow thrust
Before us, till he's been scrubb'd fust.  Maryland! My Maryland!

I see no blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! My Maryland!
It's not been washed for many a week, Maryland! My Maryland!
To get thee clean - 'tis truth I speak - would dirty every stream and creek
From Potomac to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Yankee toll, Maryland! My Maryland!
Nor stoop to honor's stern control, Maryland! My Maryland!
Better to murder, rob and roll in gutters, vanquished by the bowl,
Than elevate the Southern soul, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come, 'tis the ruddy dawn of day, Maryland! My Maryland!
So scratch yourselves and haste away, Maryland! My Maryland!
I cannot ask ye, rebs, to stay, for Burnside's coming up this way,
And there would be the devil to pay, Maryland! My Maryland!


Go - you have stolen shoes quite strong, Maryland! My Maryland!
Stealing, my rebs, is very wrong, Maryland! My Maryland!
But you were such a ragged throng, hatless and breechless - go along,
And let me sing in peace my song, Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear brave Burnside's fife and drum, Maryland! My Maryland!
Newburn and Roanoke prove him some. Maryland! My Maryland!
He'll give you fits, you trait'rous scum; he'll send to you to the world to come,
Send you to ---- , your native "hum" - Not Maryland! Not Maryland!


Mary's Dream
Lyrics From "The Social Lyricist",
Music By Jeremiah Ingalls, "The Christian Harmony"
Published In Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
1840

The moon had climbed the highest hill,
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
When soft and low a voice she heard
Say, "Mary, weep no more for me."

She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,
With visage pale and hollow e'e.
"O, Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.

Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
So Mary weep no more for me."

"Oh, maiden dear, thyself prepare;
We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!"
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy she could see,
But soft the passing spirit said,
"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me."

This haunting - and haunted - ballad first appeared in 1805, when Jeremiah Ingalls adapted and harmonized it.  "The Sacred Harp" names this melody "Clamanda", and the song also appeared as a Shaker song.  


Mary's Tears
Words By Thomas Moore
Music By Oliver Shaw
1817

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
An off'ring worthy Heav'n,
An off'ring worthy Heav'n,
When o'er the faults of former years
She wept and was forgiv'n?
She wept and was forgiv'n?

When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stor'd,
Her day of luxury stor'd,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious perfume pour'd,
The precious perfume pour'd.

And wip'd them with that goldern hair,
Where once the diamond shone,
Where once the diamond shone,
Though now those gems of grief were there,
Which shine for God alone!
Which shine for God alone!

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
Oh! wouldst thou wake in heaven,
Oh! wouldst thou wake in heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
"Love much," and be forgiven!
"Love much," and be forgiven!

From Moore's SACRED MELODIES
Sung at the Oratorio, performed by the
Handel & Haydn Society, in Boston, July 5th 1817,
In presence of the
President of the United States


the masonic song
To the tune of GOD SAVE THE KING

By sacred influence hurl'd,
From chaos rose the world,
Great will of Jove.
Grand architect supreme,
Fountains of wisdom stream,
Receive our humble theme,
Duty and love.

'Tis by the will of heaven
Kings to command are given,
George we proclaim.
Chant in full song his praise,
May such deeds crown his days,
As will through ages raise,
A deathless name.

Jehovah we implore
Peace to his realms restore,
Grant that his reign

Tyranny may destroy,
While we with rapture cry,
The King shall then enjoy
His own again.


MASSA'S IN DE COLD GROUND

Words And Music By Stephen Collins Foster
1852

'Round the meadows am a-ringing the darkies' mournful song,
While the mockingbird is singing, happy as the day is long.
Where the ivy is a creeping o'er the grassy mound,
There old Massa is a sleeping, sleeping in the cold, cold ground.

Chorus
Down in the cornfield, hear that mournful sound;
All the darkies are a-weeping - Massa's in the cold, cold ground.

When the autumn leaves were falling, when the days were cold,
'Twas hard to hear old Massa calling, 'cause he was so weak and old.
Now the orange tree is blooming on the sandy shore;
Now the summer days are coming, Massa never calls no more.

Massa made the darkies love him, he always was so kind;
Now they sadly weep above him, mourning, for he leave them behind.
I cannot work before tomorrow, so many teardrops flow,
I try to drive away my sorrow picking on the old banjo.

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York.


Mechanics Metamorphosed
See HICKORY SOLDIERS


Michael Rowed The Boat Ashore
Negro Spiritual

Michael row'd de boat ashore,
Hallelujah;
Michael row'd de boat ashore,
Hallelujah.

Michael boat a music boat,
Hallelujah;
Michael boat a music boat,
Hallelujah.

Gabriel blow de trumpet horn,
Hallelujah;
Gabriel blow de trumpet horn,
Hallelujah.

O you mind you' boastin' talk
Hallelujah;
O you mind you' boastin' talk
Hallelujah.

Boastin' talk will sink you' soul,
Hallelujah;
Boastin' talk will sink you' soul,
Hallelujah.

Brudder, lend a helpin' hand,
Hallelujah;
Brudder, lend a helpin' hand,
Hallelujah.

Sister, help for trim dat boat,
Hallelujah;
Sister, help for trim dat boat,
Hallelujah.

Michael row'd de boat ashore,
Hallelujah;
Michael row'd de boat ashore,
Hallelujah.


MISTER, HERE'S YOUR MULE

OR,
HERE'S YOUR MULE
C.D. BENSON
1862

A farmer came to camp one day with milk and eggs to sell,
Upon a "male" that oft would stray, to where, no one could tell.
The farmer, tired of his tramp, for hours was made a fool,
By ev'ry one he met in camp with "Mister, here's your mule!"

Chorus
Come on, come on, come on, old man and don't be made a fool
By ev'ry one you meet in camp with "Mister, here's your mule!"

His eggs and chickens all were gone before the break of day;
The mule was heard of all along - that's what the soldiers say.
And still he hunted all day long, Alas! a witless tool,
Whilst ev'ry man would sing the song of "Mister, here's your mule."

The soldiers run in laughing mood, on mischief were intent;
They lifted muley on their back around from tent to tent.
Through this hole and that, they pushed his head and made a rule
To shout with hum'rous voices all, "I say! Mister, here's your mule!"

Alas, one day the mule was miss'd! Ah! who could tell his fate?
The farmer, like a man bereft, search'd early and search'd late;

And as he passed from camp to camp, with stricken face, the fool
Cried out to ev'ry one he met, "Oh, Mister, where's my mule?"


Miss ebony rose
From CHRISTY'S NIGGA SONGSTER
1850

I is Ebony Rose, as you may see,
From de iseland call'd Timbuctimbee -
Me ramble up and down dis town,
To look for de nigger what dey calls Jim Brown.

And if me cotch dis ole Jim Brown,
Dat plays dem cimbles about de town,
Me fust hit him up, and den hit him down,
Me play de berry debil wid dis ole Jim Brown.

Oh, I'se de gal what makes dem grin,
Wid de whitewash teef and de blackball chin -
Lips ob red, and turn-up nose,
I'se de beauty - Ebony Rose.

Me walk about up Market Street,
A squash- up Captain me did meet;
Him quickly fall in lub wid me,
He call me beauty ob ebery degree.

Him smoke cigar, as on him goes,
Him wear him shirt outside him clothes -
But soon me ' trike dis white nigger dumb,
'Cos me wear de bustle all ' round my bum.

De brack men fust was lords of de earth,
'Twas fear dat gib de white man birth,
For Adam and Eve and de kids to boot,
Was ebery debil as brack as soot.

But when Dad Cain his broder did kill,
And buried him underneath de hill,
De ghost of Abel came to Cain one night,
So de Nigger was friten'd, and it turn'd him white.

Den Samson play'd some berry funny jokes -
Him went and killed a thousand folks -
Him chopp'd 'em up like hay or grass
Wid de jaw bone of an ole jackass.

Den Jonas like a dainty fish,
Him gwan be a debil ob a fellow for fish;
Him like red-herring and cock salmon tail,
And de hungry debil swallow a whale.

But now me lost dis ole Jim Brown,
Me gwan hab a husband from dis town.
Me like a rag'lar tip-top swell,
One dat cuddles up berry well.

So any white nigger dat wants a wife,
I is the gal to cheer him life,
Fer dough me's brack, and you be white,
Me's a match for de white man any time of night.


THE MONKEY'S WEDDING

The monkey married the baboon's sister,
Smacked his lips, and then he kissed her;
He kissed so hard, he raised a blister;
She set up a yell..
The bridesmaid stuck on some Court-plaster:
It stuck so fast, it couldn't stick faster;
Surely 'twas a sad disaster;
But it soon got well.

What do you think the bride was dressed in?
White gauze veil, and a green-glass breastpin,
Red-kid shoes .. she was quite interesting;
She was quite a belle.
The bridegroom swelled with a blue shirt-collar,
Black-silk stock that cost a dollar,
Large false whiskers, the fashion to follow;
He cut a monstrous swell.

What do you think they had for supper?
Black-eyed peas, and bread and butter,
Ducks in the duck-house all in a flutter,
Pickled oysters, too;
Chesnuts raw, and boiled and roasted,
Apples sliced, and onions toasted;
Music in the corner posted,
Waiting for the cue.

What do you think was the tune they danced to?
"The Drunken Sailor:" sometimes "Jim Crow;"
Tails in the way, and some got pinched, too,
'Cause they were too long.
What do you think they had for a fiddle?
An old banjo with a hole in the middle,
A tambourine made out of a riddle -
And that's the end of my song

H. DE MARSAN.  Songs, Ballads, Toys, Books.  54 Chatham St. N. Y.


mORGAN'S WAR SONG

See CHEER, BOYS, CHEER


mother, home and heaven
By Frank Drayton
1856

A mother's name is dear to all,
The first we lisp in infant days:
And when our golden youth hath flown
We love to sing it in our lays:
'Tis sweet to mem'ry to recall,
The watchful care, and cheering smiles,
Of a dear Mother's loving heart,
A heart that ne'er its love beguiles.

Chorus
There's many names we all revere,
And cherish'd ones to us most dear,
But none more sweet to us are giv'n
Than those of Mother, Home and Heav'n.

The name of home we love to hear,
Tho' it may ring from us sad tears;
There is in it a charm that binds,
Our hearts to scenes of bygone years:
We ne'er from mem'ry can efface
The hallow'd spot that gave us birth,
The glowing hearts of youthful friends,
Who join'd us in our sports of mirth.


The name of Heav'n doth wing our thoughts,
From joys of earth that quickly die,
To never fading ones that bide,
Within the realms of yon fair sky:
We love to dwell upon the thought,
That we with those we lov'd so well
Shall meet again where all is joy,
In that bright land where Angels dwell.


Mr. Burns And His Wife
Written & Composed By A Gentleman Of Maryland
May 20, 1824

Mister Burns and his wife
Together had strife,
He wanted bread and butter with his Tea;
Says she, "I rule the roast -
I'll have a plate of toast,"
And to logger heads with him went she.

Now a certain Mr. Monroe
Live'd on the second floor -
A Man amazing strong on the wrist;
He heard the noise and clutter
About the bread and butter,
So he knock'd down Mr. Burns with his fist.

"Mister Burns, 'pon my life,
You shall not beat your wife,
For 'tis both a sin and disgrace;"
Then up steps Mrs. B. -
"Mind your business, Moore," says she,
And she sent a cup of tea in his face.


"Oh!" cried poor Mr. Moore,
As he sneak'd out the door,
"Surely I must be a fellow without brains;
For when a man and wife are fighting,
If a stranger throws his might in,
He is sure to get twice whip'd for his pains."



the mudsills are coming
Words By E. Bowers
Music by G.L.J.
To the tune of THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING
1862

The Union, the Union we're called on to save,
Fall in the ranks to join our brothers brave;
Chivalry, Chivalry, Old Abe's not a-funning,
For six hundred thousand Mudsills are coming.

Chorus
Now up, up, my boys, and be tramping along;
We ne'er will return till the victory's won;
We come from the mountains, the dells, and the hills,
To show Southern Chivalry Northern Mudsills.

Coming, we are Coming, Father Abe now calls;
Crush foul rebellion or gloriously fall;
Brave Halleck, our Chieftain, with Pope in the throng,
Will lead us to conquer, so be tramping along.

That proud flag of freedom shall float in the breeze,
Respect it ye nations o'er land and o'er seas;

Let none dare assail it, our numbers are strong,
Who have sworn to defend it and be tramping along.

Remember, foul traitors, when this Flag you view,
With thirty-four stars in its Union of blue,
No star from our Union shall be suffered to fly,
They are fixed to remain like the stars in the sky.

THE MUDSILLS ARE COMING : a new army song ; as sung with great applause at 
Morris Bros., Pell and Trowbridge's Opera House
Written by E. Bowers ; Music by G.L.J.   
Boston : Russell & Patee, 1862.


must jesus bear the cross alone?
Words By Thomas Shepherd, PENITENTIAL CRIES, 1693, Stanza 1;
A Published English Missionary Collection,
Norwich, England, early 19th Century, Stanza 2;
THE OBERLIN SOCIAL AND SABBATH SCHOOL HYMN BOOK,
By George Nelson Allen, 1844, Stanza 3; and
PLYMOUTH COLLECTION OF HYMNS & TUNES,
By Henry Ward Beecher, 1855, Stanza 4 & 5

Must Jesus bear the cross alone,
And all the world go free?
No, there's a cross for everyone,
And there's a cross for me.

How happy are the saints above,
Who once went sorrowing here!
But now they taste unmingled love,
And joy without a tear.

The consecrated cross I'll bear
Till death shall set me free;
And then go home my crown to wear,
For there's a crown for me.

Upon the crystal pavement down
At Jesus' pierced feet,
Joyful I'll cast my golden crown
And His dear Name repeat.

O precious cross! O glorious crown!
O resurrection day!
When Christ the Lord from heav'n comes down
And bears my soul away.


My BEAUTIFUL LIZZIE
By John Mahon

Oh! fair is the form of my own darling Lizzie:
Her smile is as soft as the morn's early light;
And with my poor heart the sweet maid is so busy,
That I to a shadow am dwindling outright.
Her face is the index to all that is charming,
Her form is as lovely as lovely can be;
And she knocks at my heart with a clamor alarming,
My beautiful Lizzie, a cushla macree!

Chorus
My life and my soul is my own little darling:
Oh! she's brighter than starlight or sunbeam to me!
And her voice is far sweeter than blackbird or starling -

My sweet little colleen, my own little colleen,
My beautiful colleen, a cushla macree!

My Lizzie is lovely and blooming and bonny:
Her cheeks shame the blush of the rose of the South,
The dew on her lips is far sweeter than honey,
And graces in clusters hang round her dear mouth.
Her voice has a gush of soft melody in it,
A Heaven of rapture it brings unto me;
Oh! 'tis sweeter than song of the skylark or linnet,
My beautiful Lizzie, a cushla macree!

The light from the eyes of my beautiful Lizzie
Is brighter to me than the moon's silver beam;
It shines through my heart, till my head turns so dizzy,
I wander bewildered like one in a dream.
Oh! give me but Lizzie, so fair and enchanting!
Her smile is like music of Angels to me,
And, without her, I feel Heaven's sunlight is wanting.
My beautiful Lizzie, a cushla macree!

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York.

The music of this song can be obtained at the extensive Music-store of
Wm. A. POND & Co. 547 Broadway, N. Y.


mY DARLING'S LITTLE SHOES

T. Martin Towne
1850s

God bless the little feet that never go astray,
For the little shoes are empty in my closet laid away;
Some times I take one in my hand, forgetting till I see
It is a little half worn shoe, not large enough for me;
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain
As sharp as when two years ago it cut my heart in twain.

O the little feet that wearied not, I wait for them no more,
For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reach'd the shore;
And while the blinding teardrops wet these little shoes so old,
I try to think my darling's feet are treading streets of gold;
And as I lay them down again, but always turn to say
God bless her little feet that now, so surely cannot stray.

And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see
Two little forms beside me just as they used to be;
Two little faces lifted with their sweet and tender eyes,
Ah me! I might have known that look was born of Paradise.
I reach my arms out fondly but they clasp the empty air -
There is nothing of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear.


O the bitterness of parting I cannot drive away
Till I meet my darlings walking where their feet can never stray;
When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide
But with them safely landed upon the riverside.
Be patient, heart, while waiting to see their shining way
For the little feet in the golden street can never go astray.


My faith looks up to thee
Words By Ray Palmer - 1831
Music By Lowell Mason - 1831
1832

My faith looks up to thee,
Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Savior divine!
Now hear me while I pray,
Take all my guilt away;
O let me from this day
Be wholly thine.

May thy rich grace impart
Strength to my fainting heart,
My zeal inspire;
As thou hast died for me,
O may my love to thee
Pure, warm and changeless be,
A living fire.

While life's dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread,
Be thou my guide;
Bid darkness turn to day;
Wipe sorrow's tears away,
Nor let me ever stray
From thee aside.

When ends life's transient dream,
When death's cold sullen stream
Shall o'er me roll;
Blest Savior, then in love
Fear and distrust remove;
O bear me safe above,
A ransomed soul.

In 1831, Lowell Mason, a distinguished musician, met Ray Palmer, an 1830 graduate of Yale College, on a Boston street.  Mason mentioned that he was compiling a hymnal, and asked Palmer if he had any hymns that might be included.  Palmer admitted that he did, and pulled out of a pocket a small morocco-bound notebook containing poetic verses he had committed to paper.  

Palmer showed Mason a poem he had written a year earlier that began, "My faith looks up to thee."  Mason asked for a copy; so the two men stepped into a store and Palmer, standing at the counter, copied the six stanzas for Mason. 

Mason read the poem again upon reaching home, and his interest increased.  Soon Mason completed a tune for the verses, a tune he named "Olivet."  Several days later, the two men again met by chance on the street.  Mason enthusiastically greeted his young friend and said, "Mr. Palmer, you may live many years and do many things, but I think you will be best known for posterity as the author of MY FAITH LOOKS UP TO THEE."

Palmer's text and Mason's music were first published in 1832 in Boston in SPIRITUAL SONGS FOR SOCIAL WORSHIP, edited by Mason and Thomas Hastings. 

Palmer's hymn affected people.  During the Civil War, a few soldiers met in a tent to pray together before going into battle.  One of the men suggested that they should put in writing something to leave behind, in case they did not return.  One man took out a piece of paper, and from memory wrote the words of MY FAITH LOOKS UP TO THEE, and handed it to the other soldiers to sign.  Only one of those men survived the battle, but he comforted the hearts of the bereaved families by sending them copies of the signed document.

Following graduation from Yale in 1830, Palmer went to New York for a year where he taught at a select school for young ladies.  He then returned to New Haven, Connecticut, to teach in a girls' college.  In 1835, Palmer was ordained to the ministry.

Palmer held only two pastorates; he spent 15 years in Bath, Maine, and 15 more in Albany, New York.  Returning to New York City, he became corresponding secretary of the American Congregational Union, and within 12 years had assisted in erecting 600 church buildings.  In 1878, forced to retire because of ill health, he moved to Newark, New Jersey, where he continued to write and act as a supply pastor.

Mason, a native of Massachusetts, lived in Savannah, Ga., from 1812 to 1827 and worked as a bank clerk and studied music with excellent teachers.  He returned to Boston where he began music classes for children of his church to improve the music of both choir and congregation.  Because of his commitment to music education, he is recognized as the "father of public school music in America."


My Little Colored Chile
Slave Song

To a cabin in woodland drear
You've come a mammy's heart to cheer;
In this old cabin,
Your hands my heart-strings grabbin'.
Jes' lay your head upon my bres',
An' snuggle close an' res' an' res',
My little colored chile.

Yo' daddy ploughs ole Massa's corn,
Yo' mammy does de cookin';
She'll gib dinner to her hungry chile
When nobody is lookin'.
Doan' be ashamed my chile, I beg,
'Case yo' was hatched from a buzzard's egg;
My little colored chile.


my mother's bible
Words By Henry Russell
1841

This book is all that's left me now -
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past,
Here is our family tree;
My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She dying gave it me.
My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She dying gave it me.

Ah, well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearth used to close
After the evening prayer;
And speak of what this volume said
In tones my heart would thrill.
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still.
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still.

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look
Who learned God's word to hear.
Her angel face, I see it yet,
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home.
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home.

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
When all were false I found thee true,
My counselor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give
From me this book could buy,
For, teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.
For, teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

 



MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, GOODNIGHT

Words And Music By Stephen Collins Foster
1853

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day.
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy and bright;
By and by, Hard Times comes a-knocking at the door,
Then my old Kentucky Home, good night!

Chorus
Weep no more, my lady, Oh! weep no more to-day!
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door.
The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;
The time has come when the darkies have to part,

Then my old Kentucky Home, good night!

The head must bow and the back will have to bend,
Wherever the darkey may go;
A few more days, and the trouble all will end
In the field where the sugar canes grow.
A few more days for to tote the weary load,
No matter - 'twill never be light;
A few more days we totter on the road,
Then my old Kentucky Home, good night!


My Old MIssus Promise Me
Slave Song

My old Missus promise me,
Shoo a la a day,
When she die, she set me free,
Shoo a la a day.

She live so long her head get bald,
Shoo a la a day;
She give up de idea ob dyin' at all,
Shoo a la a day.


MY PRETTY QUADROON

I'll never forget when we met,
Sweet Cora my pretty quadroon;
I see her bright eyes shining yet
As we vowed to be true 'neath the moon.
Her form was exceedingly fair,
Her lips like the wild rose in June,
And her ringlets of dark glossy hair
Were the curls of my pretty quadroon.

Chorus
Oh my pretty quadroon,
The flower that faded too soon;
My heart's like the strings on my banjo:
All broke for my pretty quadroon.

How happy we were for a day,
Like love birds we dwelt 'neath the bowers;
And the brightness of Cora's sweet smile
Seemed to rival the blush of the flowers.
But happiness fades like the rose -

Before the first full of the moon
The grim reaper knocked at my door
And took Cora, my pretty quadroon.

Farewell to Kentucky's green hills,
Farewell to Kentucky's green braes;
Farewell to the green grassy fields
Where Cora and I often strayed.
To this old world I'll soon say farewell,
My heart will find rest in the tomb;
But my spirit will fly to the spot
And watch over my pretty quadroon.


my rosy lub is the turtle dove
From CHRISTY'S NIGGA SONGSTER
1850

My Rosy lub is a turtle dove,
She was born in Alabama.
She is the handsomest yaller gal,
In the state of Indianna.
For Rose and I were in the field,
A thunder storm came on,
The lightning came near striking her
I really thought she was gone.
Her head is like a tobacco plant,
Her mouth like the bananna,
She is the handsomest yaller gal,
In the state of Indianna.

My Rosy lub is a turtle dove,
An' I know dat she lubs me,
She is the prettiest yaller gal,
That ever you did see;
Rose and I were returning
When our work was over,
A large black snake jumped out ob de grass,
And bit her on the nose.
Her head is like a tobacco plant,
Her mouth like the bananna,
She is the handsomest yaller gal,
In the state of Indianna.


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