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Hail To The Chief
To the tune of RED, WHITE AND BLUE

Our Army and Navy forever,
All hail to our Chief in command!
Shall we surrender? No, never!
So long as our Country shall stand.
While the Star-spangled Banner waves o'er us,
While we to our colors are true,
Determined we must be victorious,
Defending the Red, White and Blue.

United we stand by the Union,
We will our Republic maintain,
And bind all our hearts in communion--
Abe Lincoln triumphant shall reign.
With courage we march on to battle,
To our friends we will all say adieu;
We fear not the loud cannon's rattle,
While defending the Red, White and Blue.

We'll stand by our old Constitution:
The Union, it must be preserved:
Bid defiance to all revolution,
And bravely march on at the word.
Now three rousing cheers for McClellan,
For Sherman and Burnside, too!
Three more for our brave Western Army,
And nine for the Red, White and Blue.

A. W. AUNER, SONG PUBLISHER, 110 N. 10th Street, Philadelphia.

 


Ham-Fat
As sung by Ben Cotton

Good evening, white folks, I come to please you all,
I'm right from old Virginny, ragged, sassey, fat and tall;
You may talk about your comfort; but Massa am de man,
He gives de niggers hommony in de ham-fat-pan,

Chorus
Ham-fat, ham-fat; Zick-er Zaw-Zan.
Ham-fat, ham-fat, tick-ler, aw-tan;
Oh, get you to de kitchen as quick as you can,
Ou-cher ku-cher, ku-cher in de ham-fat-pan.

De whiskey it am plenty, and I am bound to get my fill;
I know a little yellow gal, and her I love to kill;
And if any nigger fools with her, I will mash him if I can,
For, de gravy is mighty hot in de ham-fat-pan.

Now, fare you well, white folks, I'm going far away,
I'll lay back, stay back, in clover all de day;
You can just bet your life dat, as long as I can stand,
I'll stick to my gravy in de ham-fat-pan.

Published by HORACE PARTRIDGE, No. 27 Hanover Street, BOSTON.


Hans Dunder Has Gone For A Soldier
Composed & Sung by P. Bradel Jr.,
Better known as Brudder Bones, Comic Singer of Avenue B.

I'd traveled dis Countree there und here,
I vished I had a glass ov Lagerbier;
But when I heard de news dat to me did kum,
Oh! Hans Dunder vas gone for a Solger!

Chorus
Shoo, Shoo, Skin-a-marick-a-roo,
Hy ans dis spoodle-keedle-who de duse are U!
Nicks cum a rous von de Deitchman's Hous,
Oh! Hans Dunder vas gone fur a Solger!

Some say Hans Dunder has gone to France,
There for to buy a pair of tight legg'd pants,
And if he gets them there, it's only by chance:
Oh! Hans Dunder vas gone for a Solger!

I vished I vas on yonder Hill,
I set me down and eat my fill,
And every glass of Lager vould turn a mill:
Oh! Hans Dunder vas gone for a Solger!

I'll sell my coat and I'll sell my pants,
I'll buy a pretzell fur Hans Dunder Hansce,
Den ven he gets to Flambasterpool why dere he can dance:
Oh! Hans Dunder vas gone for a Solger!

I'll buy a pair of pants and I'll buy them red,
All over New-York I'll eat Mahogany bread;
Why den Hans Dunder dink dat I am dead:
Oh! when he comes home from de Solger.

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher.  Songs, ballads, toy-books.  60 Chatham Street, New-York.

 


HAPPY LAND OF CANAAN

Nos. 1 & 2. - Composed and Sung by A. J. LEAVITT, at the Melodeon, Philadelphia
White folks, I'll sing my song, and I won't detain you long;
To please you this child is always strainin'.
I got so werry tight when I heard about the fight,
Dat dey took me to de Happy Land ob Canaan.

Chorus
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
De day ob de Pentecost am Comin'!
Nebber mind de wedder, but git ober double trouble;
I is bound for de Happy land ob Canaan.

De news about de fight hab come exactly right,
About which de papers am explainin';
Sayers tried to close, Heenan hit him on de nose,
And squashed him to de Happy Land ob Canaan.

When dey trabbled to de scratch, 'twas a mighty pooty match,
Tom said 'twas easy work to train 'im;
But, every time he grins, Heenan knocks him off his pins,
And sends him to de Happy Land ob Canaan.

Tom was licked as slick as grease, when dey hollered out "Police!"
The Benicia Boy his ground was still maintainin'.
In voice he hollered loud dat he'd whip de whole damned crowd,
So he punched dem in de Happy Land ob Canaan.

Sayers, he is game, and Heenan, he's de same -
Dar's plenty more such Yankees yet remainin'.
The belt he won so clever, may we hope he'll keep forever,
And fetch it to de Happy Land ob Canaan.

No. 3 - As sung nightly, with raptures of applause, by DICK McGOWAN, the favorite Banjoist and Comedian.
Now white folks, you see dat I'se been upon a spree,
And I had my pockets chuck full ob tin;
Oh! de wedder was so bad dat it made this darkey mad,
So I had to mix it up wid little gin.

Chorus
Oh-oh, oh oh, ha-ha, ha-ha,
De day ob de Pentecost discover'd,
Nebber mind de wedder, but git ober double trouble,
'Kase I'se bound for de Happy Land ob Canaan.

I will tell you a joke ob dose dat like to smoke,
From de man to de infant dat's in training;
From a penny to a dollar, how does your mereshom colour?
'Till colour in de Happy Land ob Canaan.

There is a man slayer, and his name is Tommy Sayers,
And he whipt every thing that came before him:
But there is another being, and his name is JOHN C. HEENAN,
And he knocked him in de Happy Land ob Canaan.

Governor Wise he shakes fist at the abolishionist,
He wants an opportunity to train dem;
He will hang dem all genteely - Gerit Smith and Horace Greely -
When he catches dem in dat Happy Land ob Canaan.

J. H. JOHNSON, SONG PUBLISHER, CARD & JOB PRINTER, No. 7 N. Tenth Street, above Market, Philadelphia. Sam Sanford's New Song Books, Nos. 1, 2 & 3. ONLY THREE CENTS EACH. THESE BOOKS SOLD TO THE TRADE.

No 5.
You may talk about de times, but jes' listen to my rhymes:
It brings to you de news accordin';'
It tells you how to catch Old Jeff and Beauregard,
And fotch 'em to de happy land of Canaan.

Chorus
Oh, oh, oh, ah, ah, ah,
De people in de South am getting mighty hot;
But afore dey know, old Jeff will git a shot,
Dat will send him to the happy land of Canaan.

Oh, the Rebels, they can blow, as all ob you may know,
'Kase dey beat us at de battle of Bull-Run;
But when we come on dem again, we shall show dem some fun,
And bring dem to de happy land of Canaan.

Oh, white folks, I s'pose you read 'bout old Jeff and his white steed,
Dat was seen in dat engagement:
Says a Union Volunteer: "Oh, I'd like to pop him dere,
And squash him to de happy land of Canaan.
"

Oh, de Fire-Zouaves were dere - dey made de Black-horse Cavalry stare;
De way dey fought on dat occasion;
Dey made dem open deir eyes, and look in great surprise,
And wish dey were in de happy land of Canaan.

H. DE. MARSAN PUBLISHER OF SONGS AND BALLADS PAPER DOLLS TOY BOOKS &c.
54 CHATHAM. ST N.Y.

No 6. - As sung by H. Miller.
I am almost ninety-nine; I remember well the time
Our country was invaded by the Britons;
But one of nature's noble sons, brave General Washington,
Made them GIT from our Happy Land of Canaan!

Chorus
Oh, oh, oh, ah, ah, ah!
The day of retribution am coming;
The Lord bless the free! For the right I surely be:
Hurrah for the Happy Land of Canaan!

I will mention, in my rhyme, down to the present time,
Brothers against one another am a-training;
The Union split in two; there is nothing else to do,
But to fight for our Happy Land of Canaan.

Jeff Davis and Beauregard have been trying mighty hard
To bring the North down so they could reign in;
But they had better pull up stakes and travel for Salt Lake;
For, we can spare them from our Happy Land of Canaan.

Abe Lincoln took the chair: now Secessionists beware!
Deal fairly by all sections of the Union,
And if we ever spot them pulling cards from off the bottom,
We will rail-ride them from the Happy Land of Canaan.

Colonel Ellsworth, you all know, he was a resident of Chicago;
At the head of the Zouaves he was reigning;
He was cruelly murdered here, and revenged he will be dear!
He was a favorite in our Happy Land of Canaan.

Senator Douglas has passed away, the greatest statesman of the day:
In a better, happier land he is reigning;
That he may look from on high, and see our Union colors fly,
And send blessings to our Happy Land of Canaan!

Now, things look mighty dark, and our good old Union bark
On the breakers of Secession am a-straining;
Our flag it waves on high; we will keep it there or die;
Lord bless our Happy Land of Canaan!

The comet you see at night, is a wonderful sight -
It is there since the war has been raging;
That it may go down South, slap them rebels in the mouth,
And knock them from our Happy Land of Canaan!

Now, up with the Stripes and Stars, and down with civil wars;
Let the scream of our Eagle still be UNION!
God bless the whole caboodle, Hail Columbia and Yankee Doodle!
Hip, hurrah, for our Happy Land of Canaan!

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher. 54 Chatham Street, N.Y.

 

HARD CRACKERS, COME AGAIN NO MORE

Let us close our game of poker, take our tin cups in our hand,
As we all stand by the cook's tent door.
Where dry mummies of hard crackers are given to each man,
Oh, hard tack come again no more!

Chorus
'Tis the song, the sigh of the hungry:
"Oh, hard tack, hard tack, come again no more
Many days have you lingered, upon our stomach sore,
Oh, hard tack, come again no more.
"

'Tis a hungry, thirsty soldier, who wears his life away,
With torn clothes, whose better days are o'er;
And he's sighing now for whiskey, in a voice as dry as hay,
"Oh, hard tack, come again no more!'

'Tis the wail that is heard in the camp both night and day,
'Tis the murmur that is mingled with each snore;
'Tis the sighing of the soul for spring chickens far away,
Oh, hard tack, come again no more!

But to all these cries and murmurs, there comes a sudden hush,
As frail forms are fainting by the door.
For they feed us now on horse feed that the cooks call mush
Oh, hard tack, come again once more!

Final Chorus
'Tis the dying wail of the starving,
"Oh, hard tack, hard tack, come again once more;
You were old and very wormy but we pass your failings o'er,
Oh! Hard tack, come again once more."


Hard Times

Listen awhile and give ear to my song
Concerning these hard times, 'twill not take you long,
How every one tries each other to bite,
And in cheating each other they think they do right.
Nothing but hard times.

There are some young men, which you very well know,
To see pretty girls they are sure to go;
The old folks will giggle, they will laugh, and they'll grin,
Crying, "Use him well, Sal, or he'll not come again."

The baker will cheat you in the bread that you eat,
And so will the butcher, in the weight of his meat;
He'll tip up the steelyards, and make them go down,
And swears it is weight, when it lacks half a pound.

The next are the ladies, the sweet little dears,
At the balls and the parties, how nice they appear;
With whalebones and corsets themselves they will squeeze,
You have to unlace them before they can sneeze.

Next is the tinker, he'll mend all your ware,
For little or nothing, some ale or some beer;
But before he begins, he'll get half drunk or more,
And in stopping one hole, why he'll punch twenty more.

The judge on his bench, so honest and true,
He'll stare at a man, as though he'd look him through;
He'll send him a year or six months to the jail,
And for five dollars more, why he'll go your bail.

Then the next is the doctor, he'll cure all your ills,
With his puffs and his powders, his syrups and squills,
He'll give you a dose that will make you grow fat,
Or some pills that will leave you but your boots and your hat.

The ladies must all have their silks and their laces,
And things they call bonnets, to show off their faces;
But their figure, however, can never be seen,
For they are hooped like a barrel, with French crinoline.

The last is the sheriff, who thinks himself wise,
He'll come to your house with a big pack of lies;
He'll take all your property that he can sell,
And get drunk on the money, that's doing d--m well.
In these hard times.

H. DE MARSAN.  Songs, Ballads, toy books.  54 Chatham Street, N.Y.

 

 



Philadelphia Orphan Asylum Sleeping Room
1832

HARD TIMES, COME AGAIN NO MORE
WORDS AND MUSIC BY STEPHEN FOSTER
1854

Let us pause in life's pleasures, and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears:
Oh, hard times come again no more.

Chorus
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary -
"Hard times, hard times come again no more;
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door,
Oh, hard times come again no more."

While we seek mirth and beauty, and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
"Oh, hard times come again no more."

There's a pale, drooping maiden who works her life away
With a worn heart, whose better days are o'er;
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day -
"Oh, hard times come again no more."

'Tis the sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard across the shore -
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave -
"Oh, hard times come again no more."

THOS. G. DOYLE, Bookseller, Stationer, Song Dealer, &c.,
No. 297 Gay Street, near Ashland Square, Balt.
ORDERS FOR MUSIC PROMPTLY ATTENDED TO.

According to Stephen Foster's brother, Morrison, HARD TIMES, COME AGAIN NO MORE was based on a Negro spiritual that Stephen Foster heard as a child.  During Foster's childhood, his  father had a mulatto bound girl named Olivia Pise, illegitimate daughter of a West Indian Frenchman, who taught dancing to the upper circles of Pittsburgh society early in the 19th century.  "Lieve," as she was called, was a devout Christian and a member of a church of shouting colored people.  The little boy was fond of their singing and boisterous devotions.  "Lieve" was often allowed to take Stephen to church with her.   A number of songs heard there, and which, according to Morrison, were described by Stephen as "too good to be lost" were by Stephen Foster ultimately preserved as short scraps which were incorporated in two of his songs:  HARD TIMES,  COME AGAIN NO MORE and OH, BOYS, CARRY ME ALONG.


HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SING
Words By Charles Wesley
Music By Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy
Arranged by William Hayman Cummings
1855

Hark! The herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!'
Joyful, all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies;
With th' angelic host proclaim, "Christ is born in Bethlehem!'

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King!'
Christ, by highest heav'n adored; Christ the everlasting Lord;
Late in time, behold Him come, Offspring of a virgin's womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail th' incarnate Deity,
Pleased with us in flesh to dwell, Jesus our Emmanuel.

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King!'
Hail the heavenly Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings, Ris'n with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by, Born that man no more may die.
Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King!'
Come, Desire of nations, come, Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the woman's conquering Seed, Bruise in us the serpent's head.
Now display Thy saving power, Ruined nature now restore;

Now in mystic union join Thine to ours, and ours to Thine.

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King!'
Adam's likeness, Lord, efface, Stamp Thine image in its place:
Second Adam from above, Reinstate us in Thy love.
Let us Thee, though lost, regain, Thee, the Life, the inner man:
O, to all Thyself impart, Formed in each believing heart.

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn King!' 


Harper's Ferry
Composed and sung by HARRY FOX,
The celebrated Banjoist,
At Hitchcock's National Concert Hall.
To the tune of BLOW YE, WINDS OF MORNING

At Harper's Ferry now, dar's been a great sensation:
De white folks wanted to get de niggars off de Plantation.
You all hab herd and read about dat great big Insurection,
How de sogers were called out den for de city protection.

Chorus
Blow ye, winds of morning,
Blow ye, winds, heigh ho!
Then blow ye, winds of morning,
Blow - blow - blow.

Old Brown then took de engine house, and armory so fine,
He thought the niggars all would run, and help him out in time
With guns and pick-axes, he had to hab a mighty fight;
But instead of helping him, they all kept out ob sight.

If some fun you want to hab, give a nig a gun;
When the powder he does smell, oh Moses, won't he run!
To bring de niggars in de fight, you know it was a sin,

For if you want dem to show fight, just kick dem in the shin.

Now, white folks all and sisterzins, my song is nearly done:
The next you'll hear of me, will be at Washington.
The President I'm going to see, for an office I will try,
And if he don't make me Head-cook, he'll have to root hog on.

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher of songs & ballads.
Toy-books, paper-dolls
60 CHATHAM Street, N.Y.


He Leadeth Me

Words By Joseph Henry Gilmore - 1859
Music By William Batchelder Bradbury
From THE GOLDEN CENSER
1864

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate'er I do, where'er I be
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.

Refrain
He leadeth me, He leadeth me,
By His own hand He leadeth me;
His faithful follower I would be,
For by His hand He leadeth me.

Sometimes mid scenes of deepest gloom,
Sometimes where Eden's bowers bloom,
By waters still, over troubled sea,
Still 'tis His hand that leadeth me.

Lord, I would place my hand in Thine,
Nor ever murmur nor repine;
Content, whatever lot I see,
Since 'tis my God that leadeth me.

And when my task on earth is done,
When by Thy grace the victory's won,
E'en death's cold wave I will not flee,
Since God through Jordan leadeth me.

Gilmore wrote these words after preaching one day at the First Baptist Church, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He had not meant them for publication, but his wife sent them to The Watchman and Reflector in Boston, Massachusetts, which printed them. Equally curious was the fact that Gilmore was not told when the hymn was set to music. In 1865, he visited the Second Baptist Church in Rochester, New York, to preach as a ministerial candidate. When he picked up the hymnal to see what the congregational was singing, he found it was his own hymn, "He Leadeth Me."


THE HEBREW CHILDREN
Traditional Southern Folk Hymn

Where now are the Hebrew children?
Where now are the Hebrew children?
Where now are the Hebrew children?
Safe in the promised land.:

O where is weeping Mary?
O where is weeping Mary?
O where is weeping Mary?
'Rived in the goodly land.

She is dead and gone to Heaven,
She is dead and gone to Heaven,
She is dead and gone to Heaven -
'Rived in the goodly land.

O where are Paul and Silas?
O where are Paul and Silas?
O where are Paul and Silas?
Gone to the goodly land.

They are dead and gone to Heaven,
They are dead and gone to Heaven,
They are dead and gone to Heaven -
'Rived in the goodly land.


HER BRIGHT SMILE HAUNTS ME STILL

Words By W.T. Wrighton
Music By J.E. Carpenter
1861

It's been a year since last we met - we may never meet again;
I have struggled to forget, but the struggle was in vain,
For her voice lives on the breeze - her spirit comes at will;
In the midnight on the seas, her bright smile haunts me still.
In the midnight on the seas, her bright smile haunts me still.

I have sailed a falling sky, and I've charted hazard's path;
I have seen the storm arise like a giant in his wrath.
Every danger I have known that a reckless life can fill -
Though her presence is now flown, her bright smile haunts me still.
Though her presence is now flown, her bright smile haunts me still.

At the first sweet dawn of light when I gaze upon the deep,
Her form still greets my sight while the stars their vigils keep.
When I close my aching eyes, sweet dreams my memory fill,
And from sleep when I arise, her bright smile haunts me still.
And from sleep when I arise, her bright smile haunts me still.

This was a particular favorite of Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart.




HERE'S YOUR MULE

OR,
MISTER, 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,
Thro' this hole and that, they pushed his bead 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?'


He's gone to the arms of abraham
Septimus Winner
1864

My true love is a soldier
In the army now today,
It was the cruel war that made him
Have to go away;
The "draft" it was that took him,
And it was a "heavy blow,"
It took him for a Conscript,
But he didn't want to go.

Chorus:
He's gone - He's gone - As meek as any lamb,
They took him, yes, they took him, to the Arms of Abraham.

He's gone to be a soldier,
With a knapsack on his back,
A fightin' for the Union
And a livin' on "hard tack."
Oh, how he look'd like Christian,
In the Pilgrim's Progress shown,
With a bundle on his shoulders,

But with nothin' of his own.

Oh should he meet a rebel,
A pointin' with his gun,
I hope he may have courage
To "take care of number one."
If I were him, I'd offer
The fellow but a dram;
For what's the use of dying
Just for Jeff or Abraham?

Indeed, to be a soldier,
It is so very hard,
For when a fellow has his fun
They poke him on the guard:
One day he shot a rooster,
The captain thought it wrong;
And so to punish him they made
Him picket all night long.

I haven't got a lover now,
I haven't got a beau;
They took him as a raw recruit,
But mustered him, I know:
He's nothing but a private,
And not for war inclined,
Although a hard old nut to crack
A colonel you might find.

My true love is a soldier,
Upon the battle-ground,
And if he ever should be lost
I hope he may be found;
If he should fall a-fightin'
Upon the battle-plain,
I hope some other chap may come
And pick him up again.

Philadelphia : Septimus Winner, 1864


Hickory Soldiers
Or,
Mechanics Metamorphosed
Words By Mr. Finn
To the tune of Yankee Doodle

The following humorous Song was written by Mr. FINN, and sung by him, to the tune of Yankee Doodle, at the dinner at Faneuil Hall, in honour of the inauguration of President Jackson.

'Twas in the Town of New-Orleans,
Most ex-tra-ordinary,
Our Troops resolved to go, which means,
They'd March in January,
We have a nation sight of words;
No nation can out talk us,
So 'twas agreed in New-Orleans
To summons a Grand Caucus.

Chorus
Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle Dandy;
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.

"Our enemy," the Doctor said,
"With the scarlet fever's shaken,
He must be bled and sugar of lead,
Thro' a syringe must be taken."
"I'm sure an Action here will lie,"
Said a lawyer like a Porpus,
We'll kill 'em and remove 'em by
A writ of Habeas Corpus."

The Grocer said "I shall make free
To speak a little louder:
We'll suit the British to a T,
For I recommend Gunpowder."
The Gunsmith, with Kentucky zeal,
Cried, "it is no use to trifle;
For if the foe is used to steel,
Why, we are used to rifle."

The Glazier said, I'll cut a dash
If commission I obtain, sir,
For if I only get a sash,
I am sure I shall take pains, Sir."
The Shoemaker said, "I see fit,
To do my bounden duty,
The foe will put his foot in it
If he tries to get the Bootee."

The Printer, with impressions arm,
Said, none shall stand aloof, Sir,
And as he had been use to form,
He'd fight to give 'em proof, Sir,"
The Sadler said "I'll give 'em kicks
With all my might and Main, Sir,
Our fathers said, in Ninety-six,
"We'll have no Curb nor rein, Sir."

And after that, the Wheelwright spoke,
And said he'd Wheel and fire,
Before he'd wear a foreign Yoke,
The enemy he'd tire.
The Tailor said "John Bull's as bad
As the Turks who do abuse Greece,
If overdone, why I'm the lad,
To baste the foe with Goose-grease."

The Engraver said he'd march in line,
As gay as a grasshopper,
And leave the foe no plates to dine,
Nor dinners in their copper.
The Baker felt his courage rise,
His heart burn like charcoal, sirs,
And swore a musket he wou'd p'ise,
When e'er they call'd the roll sirs.

The Dyer, said, fast colours men,
We'll keep, till foes shall fly, sirs,
And soon a deeper scarlet then
We'll teach 'em how to dye, sirs."
Then came the Spinner full of glee,
And said, we've beat 'em all, sirs,
Success to every factory,
That sends such cotton balls, sirs."

If Johnny Bull, and Paddy Bull,
And we their offspring, rule works,
We'll give the world a belly full,
And prove, unconquer'd Bul-works.
But too much time my work employs,
So I'll quit my apparatus,
And just propose, nine cheers, my boys,
To the modern CINCINNATUS!

Sold Wholesale and Retail by Leonard Deming,
Corner of Merchant's and Market Row, Boston, Massachusetts

 


high Daddy
Written & Composed ByDaniel Decatur Emmett
1863

The sun's gone down to take a little sleep,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
The moon's come out to take another peep,
I met High Daddy and I wont go home any more, any more;
Then wake up boys! for master's come to bed.
I met High Daddy in the morning;
We'll have a spree if we hav'n't got a red.
I met High Daddy and I won't go home any more, any more!

CHORUS 
Then darky, never die,
Black face and china eye;
Go down to the barnyard, boys, the owl's on the roost;
High Daddy wont come nigh.
He's chok'd on chicken pie;
'Tis all "OK," I say and right upon the goose.

I know'd a darkie and his name was Joe,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
I know it was, for he once told me so;
I met High Daddy in the morning;
He used to hoe and dig up all the land,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
But now he says that "Work is contraband."
I met High Daddy and I won't go home any more, any more!

He drank skimm'd milk from morn' 'til night.
I met High Daddy in the morning;
Somebody said that it would make him white;
I met High Daddy in the morning;
But let him drink until he gets his fill.
I met High Daddy in the morning;
He's always bound to be a darkie still!
I met High Daddy and I won't go home any more, any more!

His color will stick, but that's not a sin.
I met High Daddy in the morning;
To wash it off, you're compell'd to rub it in;
I met High Daddy in the morning;
For darkie will be darkie as I've said before,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
To the end of the world and for "two days more!"
I met High Daddy and I won't go home any more, any more!

The black man is a very curious thing,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
His jaybird heel can shuffle, cut, and wing,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
But fill him up with gin, and lay him in the shade,
I met High Daddy in the morning;
He'll work very well - especially if he's made!
I met High Daddy and I won't go home any more, any more!

The Famous Song Written & Composed Expressively for
Bryant's Minstrels of New Yo
rk by Daniel Decatur Emmett
New York: Wm. A Pond & Co., 547 Broadway


High-Toned Southern Gentleman

Down in the sunny Southern clime,
The curious ones may find
A ripping, tearing gentleman of an uncommon kind.
A stagg'ring, swagg'ring sort of chap
That takes his whiskey straight
And frequently condemns his eyes
Unto an awful fate,
A high-toned Southern gentleman,
One of the present time.

He always wears a full-dress coat -
Pre-Adamite in cut -
With waistcoat of the broadest style,
Through which his ruffles jut;
Six breastpins deck his horrid front, and on his fingers shine
Whole invoices of diamond rings which would hardly pass muster 
With the "Original Jacobs" in Chatham Street for jewels genuine
This "high-toned" Southern gentleman,
One of the present time.

He takes to euchre kindly, too, and plays an awful hand
Especially when those he tricks his style don't understand;
And if he wins, why then he stops to pocket all the stakes
But if he loses, then he says to the unfortunate
Stranger who had chanced to win,
"It's my opinion that you are a cursed Abolitionist,
And if you don't leave South Carolina in an hour,
You'll be hung like a dog!" but no offer to pay his losses make,
This "high-toned" Southern gentleman,
One of the present time.


Of course, he's all the time in debt to those who credit give,
Yet manages upon the best the market yields to live.
But if a Northern creditor asks him his bill to heed,
This honorable gentleman instantly draws his Bowie knife and pistols,
Dons a blue cockade, and declares that, in consequence of the repeated aggressions
Of the North and its gross violations of the Constitution, he feels that it would
Utterly degrade him to pay any debt whatever, and in fact that
He has at last determined to SECEDE!
This "high-toned" Southern gentleman,
One of the present time.


de history ob de world
From the popular extravaganza
BUFFALO GALS AT THE DELPHI
1847

O, I come from ole Virginny
Wid my head full ob knowledge,
And I never went to free school
Nor any other college;
But one thing I will tell you,
Which am a solid fact,
I tell you how dis world was made
In a twinkling ob a crack. 

CHORUS
Den walk in,
Den walk in I say,
Den walk in,
And hear de banjo play,
Den walk into de parlor,
And hear de banjo ring,
And watch dis nigger's fingers,
While he plays upon de string. 

Oh, dis world was made in six days,
And den dey made de sky,
And den dey hung it ober head
And left it dar to dry;
And den dey made de stars
Out ob nigger wenches eyes,
For to gib a little light
When de moon didn't rise.

So Adam was de first man,
Ebe, she was de oder,
And Cain walk'd on de treadmill,
Because he kill'd his broder;
Ole Moder Ebe
Couldn't sleep widout a pillar,
And de greatest man dat eber lived
Was Jack de Giant killer.

And den dey made the sea,
And in it put a whale,
And den de made a raccoon,
Wid a ring around his tail;
And all de oder animals
Was finished one by one,
And stuck against de rocks to dry
As fast as they were done.

O, lightnin' is a yellow gal,
She libs up in de clouds,
And thunder he's a black man,
For he can hollow loud;
When he kisses lightning,
She dodges off in wonder,
Den he jumps and tares his trowsers,
And dat's what makes de thunder.

O, de wind begin to blow,
And de rain begin to fall,
And de water came so high,
But it drown'd de niggers all;
And it rain'd forty days and nights,
Exactly by the counting,
And it landed Noah's ark
'Pon de Alleghany Mountains.


holy Bible, Book Divine

Words By John Burton, Sr.
Music By William Batchelder Bradbury
From YOUTH'S MONITOR IN VERSE, 1803
1858

Holy Bible, book Divine,
Precious treasure, thou art mine;
Mine to tell me whence I came;
Mine to teach me what I am.

Mine to chide me when I rove;
Mine to shew a Saviour's love;
Mine art thou to guide my feet;
Mine to judge, condemn, acquit.

Mine to comfort in distress;
If the Holy Spirit bless;
Mine to shew, by living faith,
Man can triumph over death.

Mine to tell of joys to come,
And the rebel sinner's doom;
Holy Bible, book Divine,
Precious treasure, thou art mine.



The Geneva Bible


HOLY, HOLY, HOLY
Words By Reginald Heber
Music By James B. Taylor
1861

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, bless'd Trinity!

Holy, holy, holy! All the saints adore Thee,
Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee,
Who was, and is, and evermore shall be.

Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see;
Only Thou art holy; there is none beside Thee,
Perfect in power, in love, and purity.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
All Thy works shall praise Thy Name, in earth, and sky, and sea;
Holy, holy, holy; merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, bless'd Trinity!

Reginald Heber wrote the lyrics in 1826.  Heber died later that year in India.


HOME, SWEET HOME

Henry R. Bishop & John Howard Payne
1823

'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.

Chorus:
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!
There's no place like Home!

I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child
As she looks on the moon from our own cottage door
Through the woodbine whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.

An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain
Oh, give me my low, thatched cottage again,
The birds singing gaily that come at my call,
Give me them with that peace of mind, dearer than all.

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile.
Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh give me the pleasures of home.

To thee I'll return overburdened with care,
The hearts dearest solace will smile on me there
No more from that cottage again will I roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

"Home Sweet Home" was arguably the most popular song of the 19th century - in every civilized country, not just England and America.  Written as part of the operetta CLARI in 1823 as a collaborative effort between Henry R. Bishop of England and John H. Payne of the United States, it became a favorite of the soldiers for both the North and the South during the Civil War.  There are documented accounts when the opposing armies, camped along opposite banks of the Potomac River, sang patriotic songs, military songs, popular songs, and sentimental songs.  One army took up the refrain of "Home, Sweet Home" and suddenly the melody rose from both sides of the Potomac - the two armies sharing the common desire to be home with the ones they loved.


THE HOMESPUN DRESS
Carrie Bell Sinclair

Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, and glory in the name,
And boast it with far greater pride than glittering wealth or fame.
We envy not the Northern girl her robes of beauty rare,
Though diamonds grace her snowy neck, and pearls bedeck her hair.

Chorus
Hurrah! Hurrah! For the sunny South so dear;
Three cheers for the homespun dress that Southern ladies wear.

The homespun dress is plain, I know - my hat's palmetto, too;
But then it shows what Southern girls for Southern rights will do.
We have sent the bravest of our land to battle with the foe,
And we will lend a helping hand; we love the South, you know.

Now, Northern goods are out of date; and since old Abe's blockade,
We Southern girls can be content with goods that's Southern made.
We sent our sweethearts to the war, but dear girls, never mind,
Your soldier-love will ne'er forget the girl he left behind.

The soldier is the lad for me - a brave heart I adore;
And when the sunny South is free, and fighting is no more,
I'll choose me then a lover brave from out the gallant band,
The soldier lad I love the best shall have my heart and hand.

The Southern land's a glorious land, and has a glorious cause;
Then cheer three cheers for Southern rights, and for the Southern boys.
We scorn to wear a bit of silk, a bit of Northern lace;
But make our homespun dresses up, and wear them with such grace.

And now, young man, a word to you; if you would win the fair,
Go to the field where honor calls, and win your lady there.
Remember that our brightest smiles are for the true and brave,
And that our tears are all for those who fill a soldier's grave.


Homeward Bound
By Reverend W.F. Warren
1862

Out on an ocean all boundless we ride
We're homeward bound, homeward bound;
Tossed on the waves of a rough restless tide,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound.
Far from the safe quiet harbor we've rode,
Seeking our Father's celestial abode -
Promise of which on us each He bestowed;
We're homeward bound, homeward bound.

Wildly the storm sweeps us on as it roars -
Look! yonder lie the bright heavenly shores!
Steady, O pilot! Stand firm at the wheel;
Steady, we soon shall out-weather the gale.
O, how we fly 'neath the loud creaking sail;
We're homeward bound, homeward bound.

Into the harbor of heaven we glide,
We're home at last, home at last;
Softly we drift on its bright silver tide,
We're home at last, home at last.
Glory to God! all our dangers are o'er;
We stand secure on the glorified shore.
Glory to God! we will shout ever more -
We're home at last, homeward bound.

Published By J. P. Magee, Boston


HONEST PAT MURPHY
See PAT MURPHY OF THE IRISH BRIGADE


Hooray for '63
See AWAY GOES CUFFEE


Girl With Dog
circa 1800

hOUND DOG

Me an' Lem Briggs an' old Bill Brown took a load of corn to town;
My old Jim do, onery old cuss, he just naturally follered us.

Chorus
Ev'ry time I go to town, the boys start kickin' my dog aroun';
Makes no diff'rence if he is a hound, they gotta quit kickin' my dog aroun'.
Dog aroun', dog aroun', gotta quit kickin' my dog aroun'.

As we drove past old Johnson's store, a passel of yaps come out the door;
Jim, he scooted behind a box with all them fellers a-throwin' rocks.

They tied a can to old Jim's tail an' run him past the county jail;
That just naturally made us sore - Lem, he cussed, an' Bill, he swore.

Me an' Lem Briggs an' old Bill Brown lost no time a-gittin' down;
We wiped them fellers on the ground for kickin' my old dog Jim aroun'.

Jim seen his duty there an' then: he lit into them gentlemen;
He shore messed up the courthouse square with rags an' meat an' hide an' hair.


HOW ARE YOU, JOHN MORGAN?
C.D. Benson
1864

A famous Rebel once was caught with sabre bright in hand
Upon a mule he never bought, but press'd in Abram's land.
The Yankees caught his whole command in the great Ohio State,
And kept the leader of the band to change for Colonel Streight.

Chorus
Then raise the shout, the glorious shout:
"John Morgan's caught at last!'
Proclaim it loud, the land throughout:
He's to prison cast.

A felon's cell was then prepared at David Tod's request,
And in Columbus prison shared the convict's shaven crest.
And thus the Rebel chieftain's pride they sought to humble low,
But Southern valor don't subside, nor less in prison grow.

But prison fare he did not like, and sought a time to leave,
And with Greenbacks and pocket knife the keepers did deceive,
They say he dug a tunnel 'neath its grated walls so grand,
And from the North he took "French leave" away for Dixie's land.

John Morgan's gone like lightning flies through every State and Town;
Keep watch, and for the famous prize - five thousand dollars down.
But he is gone, too late, too late, his whereabouts to find,
He's gone call on Colonel Streight way down in Richmond town.

Final Chorus
Upon his Mule, he's gone, they say,
To Dixie's promised Land,
And at the very distant day
To lead a new command.


HOW ARE YOU, TELEGRAPH?

John came in excellent style, to be sure,
With banner and brand came he;
His clattering hoofs made a terrible roar,
And his cannon numbering three.
The Hoosiers were scared, so entered the race,
What a rowdyish set were they;
And the Buckeyes mounted to join in the chase,
As Johnny galloped their way.

Chorus
Ho! gather your flocks and sound the alarm
For the Partisan Rangers have come;
Bold knights of the road, they scour each farm
And scamper at tap of the drum.
How are you, Telegraph?

The snow is in the clouds,
And night is gathering o'er us;
The winds are piping loud,
And fan the flames before us.
Then join the jovial band,
And tune the vocal organ;
And with a will we'll all join in,
Three cheers for John Hunt Morgan!

Jack Morgan is his name,
The fearless and the lucky.
No dastard foe can tame
This son of old Kentucky.
His heart is with his state;
He fights for Southern freedom;
His men their general's word await,
They'll go where he will lead 'em.

John Morgan quickly established himself as a daring and successful cavalry leader.  Though the only battle of major significance in which he took part was Shiloh on April 6-7, 1862, his reputation grew and grew thanks to the continual harassment meted out to the Federal Army by his Second Kentucky Cavalry Regiment in a series of raids into Kentucky.   

He became Brigadier-General Morgan on December 11th, 1862, the day before his marriage to Martha Ready, his second marriage.  His first wife had died in July 1861. 

Morgan's amazing escape from the Ohio State Penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio.  Morgan and a number of his men were captured after a raid near New Lisbon, Ohio, on July 26, 1863, and were regarded as criminals rather than prisoners of war; consequently, they were imprisoned in a state penitentiary instead of a prisoner of war camp.  After months of tunneling, on November 26, 1863, Morgan and six of his officers escaped through their tunnel from what had been considered the "escape-proof" Ohio States Penitentiary.  

They resumed their raids into Kentucky.

Less than a year later, Morgan and his men were surprised by Federal soldiers at Greenville, Tennessee.  On September 3, 1864, Morgan fought ferociously to prevent recapture; he had not fared well in prison.  His efforts were ultimately in vain, however.  While attempting to escape from imminent capture by the Federal soldiers, John Morgan was shot and killed.

Morgan and the telegraph became tied together because of a soldier named George A. Ellsworth, a Canadian telegraph operator who worked in Houston, Texas, before the Civil War.  Ellsworth would tap into the telegraph wires with his own relay set, use a ground wire to cut the circuit to towns along the line beyond him, and answer for those towns when other telegraph operators attempted to reach those towns.  Ellsworth's successful efforts at gathering intelligence and spreading incorrect information about Morgan's raiders and the Confederate forces was one of the most novel and significant innovations of the Civil War.


How Firm A Foundation

How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, 
Is laid for your faith in his excellent word! 
What more can he say than to you he hath said - 
You who unto Jesus for refuge have fled? 

In every condition - in sickness, in health: 
In poverty's vale, or abounding in wealth; 
At home and abroad; on the land, or the sea, 
As thy day may demand, shall thy strength ever be. 

"E'en down to old age, all my people shall prove 
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love; 
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn, 
Like lambs they shall still in my bosom be borne. 

"The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, 
I will not, I will not, desert to its foes: 
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, 
I'll never, no never, no, never forsake!" 


HOW SWEET AND AWEFUL IS THE PLACE

Words By Isaac Watts
Music: "St. Columba," an ancient Irish melody
From HYMNS AND SACRED SONGS
1707

How sweet and aweful is the place with Christ within the doors,
While everlasting love displays the choicest of her stores!

Here every bowel of our God with soft compassion rolls;
Here peace and pardon bought with blood is food for dying souls.

While all our hearts and all our songs join to admire the feast,
Each of us cry, with thankful tongues, "Lord, why was I a guest?

"Why was I made to hear Thy voice, and enter while there's room,
When thousands make a wretched choice, and rather starve than come?'

'Twas the same love that spread the feast that sweetly drew us in;
Else we had still refused to taste, and perished in our sin.

Pity the nations, O our God! constrain the earth to come;
Send Thy victorious Word abroad, and bring the strangers home.

We long to see Thy churches full, that all the chosen race
May with one voice, and heart and soul, sing Thy redeeming grace.


How Sweet The Name Of Jesus Sounds
Or,
The Name of jesus

Words By John Newton, Olney Hymns - 1779
Music By Alexander Robert Reinagle
From PSALM TUNES FOR THE VOICE AND PIANOFORTE
1836

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear!
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.

It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast;
'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary, rest.

Dear Name, the Rock on which I build,
My Shield and Hiding Place,
My never failing treasury, filled
With boundless stores of grace!

By Thee my prayers acceptance gain,
Although with sin defiled;
Satan accuses me in vain,
And I am owned a child.

O Jesus! Shepherd, Guardian, Friend,
O Prophet, Priest and King,
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End,
Accept the praise I bring.

Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought;
But when I see Thee as Thou art,
I'll praise Thee as I ought.

Till then I would Thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath,
And may the music of Thy Name
Refresh my soul in death!


How Tasteless And Tedious The Hours

See GREEN FIELDS


How To CLose The War
Words By George P. Hardwick
To the tune of JORDAN IS A HARD ROAD TO TRAVL

Now to close this civil war,
We want no other law:
They talk to us of Foreign Intervention;
We should like to see the man
Would refuse to shoulder gun.
And drive them to the other side of Jordan.

Chorus
Then ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha,
The day to close this war is coming;
The Union boys are ready,
And will drive the Rebels crazy;
We are bound to have
This Happy Land of Canaan. 

If the friends who stay at home,
Do not alter much their tone,
And vote to sustain the Constitution,
Our noble Ship of State,
With all her precious freight,
Will be foundered in the bottom of the ocean.

Now stop this foolish strife,
And protect your country's life;
Show the world some better legislation;
If you think you never can,
Why let some decent men
Take your seats in the Councils of the Nation.

Out in Jersey, I declare,
They have some fellows there,
Whose devotion to the Union is called in question
They had better stop and learn,
Or the Boys, when they return,
Will send them to the other side of Jordan.

And if any in the West
Should try, and think it best,
To check the army's operation,
Why load the Union gun
With very mother's son,
And shoot them to the other side of Jordan.

In the absence of the boys,
Should the Frenchmen make a noise,
About their Foreign Intervention,
Why, the women of the land,
Would take their brooms in hand
And sweep them to the other side of Jordan.

Now hoist the Stripes and Stars,
To put down this civil war;
Let's support the Constitution and the Union:
If a traitor shows his hand,
In our great and glorious land,
Why, send him to the other side of Jordan.


The Humble HEart
de Witt Hymnal
1822
A Shaker Hymn

Whence comes this bright celestial light,
What cause produces this?
A heaven opens to my sight,
Bright scenes of joy and bliss.
O Lord Jehovah, art Thou here?
This light proclaims Thou art.
"I am indeed, I'm always near
Unto the humble heart."

The proud and lofty I despise,
And bless the meek and low;
I hear the humble soul that cries,
And comfort I bestow.
Of all the trees among the wood,
I've chosen one little vine;
The meek and low are nigh to Me,
The humble heart is Mine.

Tall cedars fall before the wind,
The temopest breaks the oak;
While slender vines will bow and bend
And rise beneath the stroke.
I've chosen Me one pleasant grove
And set My lovely vine;
Here in My vineyard I will rove,
The humble heart is Mine.

Of all the fowls that beat the air,
I've chosen one little dove;
I've made her spotless, white and fair,
The object of My love.
Her feathers are like purest gold,
With glory she does shine;
She is a beauty to behold,
Her humble heart is Mine.

Of all the kinds that range at large,
I've chosen one little flock;
And those I make My lovely charge -
Before them I will walk.
Their constant shepherd I will be,
And all their ways refine,
And they shall serve and rev'rence Me -
The humble heart is Mine,.

 

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