free web hosting | free hosting | Business Web Hosting | Free Website Submission | shopping cart | php hosting

lee's songbook

I


I AM FIGHTING FOR THE NIGGER
Words By William Kiernan
To the tune of WAIT FOR THE WAGON

I calculate of niggers we soon shall have our fill,
With Abe's proclamation and the nigger army bill.
Who would not be a soldier for the Union to fight?
For Abe's made the nigger the equal of the white.

Chorus
Go in for the nigger, the sweet scented nigger,
The woolly-headed nigger, and cream colored 'moke'.

Each soldier must be loyal, and his officers obey,
Though he lives on mouldy biscuit, and fights without his pay;
If his wife at home is starving, he must be content,
Though he waits six months for Green-Backs, worth forty-five per cent.

If ordered into battle, go in without delay;
Though slaughtered just like cattle, it is your duty to obey;
And, when old Jeff Davis is captured, paid up you may be:
If you do not mind the money, don't you set the nigger free.

Moreover, if you're drafted, don't refuse to go,
You are equal to the nigger and can make as good show:
And when in the battle, to the Union prove true:
But don't, the nigger is as good a man as you.

Three for Honest Abe, he will be a great man yet,
Though he has loaded us with taxes, and burdened us with debt;
He often tells us little jokes, when pocketing our pelf,
And, at last, has made the nigger the equal of himself.

Guard well the Constitution, the Government and laws:
To every act of Congress don't forget to give applause:
And, when you meet the Rebels, be sure, and drive 'em back:
No matter if you do enslave the white man, you liberate the black.

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

Moke - a slang term for an idiot, a dolt, or a donkey.  It was, at times, applied as a descriptivc term not for a donkey, but for a mule - meaning that the "moke" was a cross-breed or hybrid animal, a bastardization of two animals (or races).  Thus, the qualifier "cream colored" for the "moke" herein mentioned refers us to mulattoes.


I AM NOT SICK, I'm over Forty-five
Or,
I will make my Wife stay at home
and give the Baby Catnip Tea

To the tune of I WISH MY WIFE HAD NO CRYING BABY

I'm exempt, I'm exempt, I vow and declare 
I'm exempt, I'm exempt, from the "draft" I will swear, 
What, though the rebels our soil may invade, 
And wipe out each general of pick-axe and spade? 
Oh! what do I care though a million are slain; 
And our starry-gemmed banner is tramped on the plain? 
Oh! what do I care, who may fall or may thrive, 
I'm exempt, I'm exempt, I'm o'er forty-five!

Oh! what do I care, what my neighbors may say, 
That I've jumped o'er ten years in less than a day? 
Oh! what do I care for my nation and laws? 
I heed not her shame, I seek not applause; 
But still for the Almighty Dollar I'll drive, 
I'm exempt, I'm exempt, I'm o'er forty-five!

I always was healthy from heel unto nobe, 
But now I have troubles as many as Job; 
You may wink and may sneer, and say "It's all gas," 
That such a lame "HO'SE" with the doctors won't pass: 
But I'm aches, I'm pains, from the head to the toe, 
I'm exempt, I'm exempt, from the draft, you must know!

I'm free to confess that I find greater charms, 
In a trip to England, than taking up arms; 
I'm off, I'm off, with the very first train, 
And when the war's over I'll come back again: 
You call me a sneak--I heed not your twaddle, 
I'm exempt I'm exempt, I mean to skedaddle!


I CAN WHIP THE SCOUNDREL
Unknown
To the tune of THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

The Yankees came to Baldwin; they came up in the rear;
They thought they'd find old Abner, but old Abner was not there.

Chorus
So lay ten dollars down, or twenty if you choose,
For I can whip the scoundrel that stole old Abner's shoes.

Jeff Davis was a gentleman, Abe Lincoln was a fool.
Jeff Davis rode a dapple gray, Abe Lincoln rode a mule.

The Yankees took me prisoner, they used me rough, it's true;
They took from me my knapsack, and stole my blankets too.

The Yankees took me prisoner, and if I can get parole,
I'll go right back and fight them, I will, upon my soul.

A captured Federal officer, a Major Abner Small (no relation to the "Abner" of this song), was being escorted to the rear of the Confederate lines when Federal artilelry shells began bursting all around them.  The guard halted, looked the Major in the face and said, "Yank, I'm damned sorry you didn't capture me."



I DON'T KNOW
OR,
THE GREAT KNOW NOTHING SONG
Words By Francis F. Eastlack
To the tune of BOW, BOW, BOW

Of all the many mighty things in this here Quaker City,
Of dark, and brown, and blue-eyed girls, with cheeks so plump and pretty;
Of all the wonders of the day that's horrible or shocking,
The greatest question of them all is: who are the Know Nothings?

Chorus
I don't know; nor you don't know,
Then don't you ask me any thing, for I don't know.

These men wear white hats all turned up, and at you boldly stare, sir,
They only speak with nods and winks, and never comb their hair, sir;
They beat both Whigs and Democrats, wherever they may go, sir,
And if you ask them any thing they'll answer, "I don't know, sir.
"

The ladies, too, God bless their hearts, I cannot help but love them,
For who with all their nods and winks can ever be above them.
No, they know their tricks, their signs, their grips, from head to heel and toe, sir,
And should you ask a girl her name, shall answer, "I don't know, sir.
"

You dare not tell your wife be still, or say she's always squealing
Or you'll find a great big three-legged stool around your head come reeling;
And the other day I asked my wife only to mend my stockings -
"Now not another word," she cried, "I'm a feminine Know Nothing.
"

The other day I came from work, with heat was almost smothered;
Says I unto my youngest son, "Ho, Sam! where is your mother?"
Then he turned his fingers on his nose, and with a voice half mocking,
"Why, Dad," says he, "Why, don't you know that I'm a young Know Nothing?
"

We took this same smart son of ours one day to a public dinner,
And into corn, and pork, and beans, he pitched in like a sinner.
Says the lady, "Now of all these men, your father to me show, Sam;"
Then he looked me right straight in the face, and answered, "I don't know, ma'am.
"

Young men, now marry from this lot of pretty girls around you,
And when you're settled down in life, and family cares surround you,
Take the advice of one poor man who's suffered deepest woe, sir -
Don't teach your little ones to say, "Why really, I don't know, sir.
"

Now, ladies, don't you think 'tis hard, and don't you think it's shocking
That we in free America should all of us know nothing?
And don't you say with all your heart, "I do believe it so, sir;"
Or can you say, like all the rest, "Why, really, I don't know, sir?"

PUBLISHED BY H. J. KEHR, CENTRAL HALL, Frankford Road and Master Streets,
AND FOR SALE AT ALL THE BOOK STORES.


I Go To Fight Mit Siegel
To the tune of THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

I've come shust now to tells you how I goes mit regimentals, 
To Schlauch dem voes of Liberty, like dem ole Continentals 
Vot fights mit England, long ago, to save de Yankee Eagle; 
Und now I gets mine sojer clothes, I'm going to fight mit Sigel. 

Chorus
Ya! Das ist drue, I shpeaks mit you, 
I'm going to fight mit Sigel. 

Ven I comes from de Deutch Countree, I vorks somedimes at baking;
Den I keeps a lager bier saloon, und den I goes shoemaking;
But now I was a sojer been to save de Yankee Eagle;
To Schlauch dem tam Secession volks, I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

I gets ein tam big rifle guns, und puts him to mine shoulder,
Den march so bold, like a big jack-horse, und may been someding bolder;
I goes off mit de volunteers, to save de Yankee Eagle;
To give dem Rebel vellers fits, I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

Dem Deutshen mens mit Sigel's band, at fighting have no rival;
Un ven Cheff Davis' mens we meet, ve Schlauch em like de tuyvil;
Dere's only one ting vot I fear, ven pattling for de Eagle;
I von't get not no lager bier, ven I goes to fight mit Sigel.

For rations dey gives salty pork, I dinks dat was a great sell;
I petter likes de Sour Kraut, de Switzer Kaize un Pretzel.
If Fighting Joe (or Liddle Mac) will give us dem, ve'll save de Yankee Eagle;
Und I'll put mine Frau in breechaloons, I'm go un fight mit Sigel.

Abraham Lincoln received 27,000 votes from all the southern states in the presidential election of 1860.  More than 15,000 of those 27,000 votes came from Germans living in St. Louis, Missouri.

German immigrants were especially numerous in St. Louis and other towns farther up the Missouri River.  Their fierce loyalty to the Union, and their early participation in the war contributed much to prevent Missouri's secession from the United States.  

The Third and Fifth Missouri Volunteers, commanded by Colonel (later General) Franz Sigel, consisted primarily of German immigrants.  In June of 1861, they were sent to Springfield, Missouri to intercept Price's and Jackson's men on their retreat south after the Battle of Boonville.  They would go on to fight Carthage, Wilson's Creek, and Pea Ridge.

Sigel was the choice of many for commander of the Army Of The Southwest after Lyon was killed at Wilson's Creek.  When the commander's position went to Samuel Curtis of Iowa, ethnic tensions within Federal ranks became increasingly apparent.

This song, written by F. Poole, was an attempt to relieve those tensions through humor.  Written to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me" and in the tradition of many minstrel show songs using various dialects, the song uses the German accent as a source for its humor, as well as the standard fare of the German diet, and the reputation Germans had for their enjoyment of beer.


I Have Got A Doctor's Certificate
To the tune of THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

Of the "Danger of Exposure to a Draft" we often read
That it generates disorders, which are very bad indeed!
But the danger from "Exposure to a Draft" was ne'er so great
As I judge from indications, it has grown to be of late.

Of all our "Rebel Citizens," I think I cannot tell
Of more than half a dozen who are "feeling very well";
And so various are the phases of the illness from one cause
That I wonder if Dame Nature still is steadfast to her laws.

One is halt, and one is blind, a third is deaf as any post,
A fourth gone in consumption, and can hardly walk at most;
A fifth is dying daily from a weakness of the spine,
And a sixth is fading slowly in general decline.


There is Jenkins, stalwart-looking, standing six feet in his shoes,
And his cheeks, so plump, look ruddy as the sunset's golden hues.
But alas! the fond delusion! 'tis a hectic flush we see:
'Tis a pulmonary Jenkins, who ere long must cease to be.

There is the Mac's with an abdomen protrusive and rotund,
One would think his "constitution as it is" disease had shunned;
But the Dropsy, that deceitful and insidious complaint,
Has begotten his distention - "You may ask him if it ha'nt."



I Love Thee

Words & Music: Anonymous
From CHRISTIAN HARMONY OR, SONGSTER'S COMPANION
1805

I love Thee, I love Thee, I love Thee, my Lord;
I love Thee, my Savior, I love Thee, my God;
I love Thee, I love Thee, and that Thou dost know;
But how much I love Thee my actions will show.

I'm happy, I'm happy, oh, wondrous account!
My joys are immortal, I stand on the mount;
I gaze on my treasure and long to be there,
With Jesus and angels and kindred so dear.

O Jesus, my Savior, with Thee I am blessed.
My life and salvation, my joy and my rest.
Thy Name be my theme, and Thy love be my song;
Thy grace shall inspire both my heart and my tongue.

Oh, who's like my Savior? He's Salem's bright King;
He smiles and He loves me and helps me to sing:
I'll praise him, I'll praise Him with notes loud and clear,
While rivers of pleasure my spirit shall cheer.

CHRISTIAN HARMONY, OR, SONGSTER's COMPANION by Jeremiah Ingalls was published in Exeter, New Hampshire by Henry Ranlet in 1805.


I See Her At De Window
Words & Music Anonymous
1847

As I walk'd out last Sunday night,
De wedder it was hazy;
A pretty Girl I chanced to meet -
Oh! She set this color'd man crazy!

First Chorus
I seen her at the window,
It was my dear Lucinda;
She dress'd so neat, and look so sweet,
I'd gin my life to bin in thar.
I seen her at the window,
It was my dear Lucinda;
She dress'd so neat, and look so sweet,
I'd gin my life to bin in thar.


Her hair was curl'd tight round her head,
I could not keep from grinning;
I really thought I should suspire,
When I heard dat yaller girl singing.

I go to de door and pull de string,
De bell it kept a-ringing;
Den she cum down and let me in,
And dis here song kept singing.

I got inside, I took a seat,
And I thought I was a gonner;
Dar sat her beau, Julius Crow,
A-noddin' in de corner.


Final Chorus
So I left her at de window,
I kissed my hand Lucinda;
She dress'd so neat, and look so sweet,
I wish dis nigga hadn't been dar.
So I left her at de window,
I kissed my hand Lucinda;
She dress'd so neat, and look so sweet,
I wish dis nigga hadn't been dar.


I Want To Live A Christian Here

I want to live a Christian here,
I want to die a-shouting.
I want to feel my Savior near,
While soul and body's parting.
I want to see bright angels stand
And waiting to receive me,
To bear my soul to Canaan's land,
Where Christ has gone before me.

My heart is often made to mourn
Because I'm faint and feeble,
And when my Savior seems to frown,
My soul is filled with trouble.
But when He doth again return,
And I repent my folly,
'Tis then I after glory run,
And still my Jesus follow.


I have my bitter and my sweet
While through this world I travel,
Sometimes I shout and often weep,
Which makes my foes to marvel.
But let them think and think again,
I feel I'm bound for heaven;
I hope I shall with Jesus reign,
I therefore still will praise Him.


i WILL ARISE

I will arise and go to Jesus; He will embrace me in His arms.
In the arms of my dear Saviour, O, there are ten thousand charms.

Come, Thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.

Teach me some melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the Mount! I'm fixed upon it, Mount of God's unchanging love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer; hither by Thy help I'm come.
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger, wand'ring from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be;
Let that grace now, like a fetter, bind my wand'ring heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.


I Wish He Would Decide, Mamma
J. Chadwick
1840

I wish he would decide, Mamma, 
I wish he would decide;
I've been a bridesmaid many times -
When shall I be a bride?
My cousin Anne and sister Fan 
The nuptial knot have tied, 
Yet come what will, I'm single still, 
Yet come what will, I'm single still, 
I wish he would decide.
When shall I be a bride? 
When shall I be a bride?
For come what will, Iím single still, 
I wish he would decide.


He takes me to the play, Mamma,
And brings me pretty books;
He woos me with his eyes, Mamma,
Such speechless things he looks.
Where e're I roam, abroad at home,
He lingers by my side,
Yet come what will, I'm single still,
Yet come what will, I'm single still,
I wish he would decide.
When shall I be a bride?
When shall I be a bride?
For come what will, I'm single still,
I wish he would decide.


I've thrown out many a hint, Mamma,
I've spoke of other beaux;
I've talk'd about domestic life,
And sung "They don't propose."
Then if he means to break, Mamma,
My passion and my pride,
Unconquer'd yet, I'll scorn regret,
Unconquer'd yet, I'll scorn regret,
Although he won't decide,
Although he won't decide,
Although he won't decide,
Unconquer'd yet, I'll scorn regret,
Although he won't decide.



I Would Not Die In Springtime
1850

I would not die in springtime,
When all is bright around,
And fair young flowers are peeping
From out the silent ground;
When life is on the water,
And joy upon the shore;
For winter, gloomy winter
Then reigns o'er us no more.

I would not die in Summer
When music's on the breeze,
And soft, delicious murmurs
Float ever through the trees;
And fairy birds are singing
From morn 'til close of day -
No: with its transient glories
I would not pass away.

When breezes leave the mountain,
Its balmy sweets all o'er -
To breathe around the fountain
And fan our bowers no more;
When Summer flowers are dying
Within the lonely glen,
And Autumn winds are sighing -
I would not perish then.

But let me die in Winter
When night hangs dark above,
And cold the snow is lying
On bosoms that we love -
Ah! may the wind at midnight
That blowest from the sea
Chant mildly, softly, sweetly,
A requiem for me.


if YOU ONLY GET A MUSTACHE
Words By George Cooper
Music By Stephen Collins Foster
1864

Oh! all of you poor single men, don't ever give up in despair
For there's always a chance while there's life to capture the hearts of the fair.
No matter what may be your age, you always may cut a fine dash -
You will suit all the girls to a hair if you've only got a moustache.
A moustache - a moustache - if you've only got a moustache.

No matter for manners or style, no matter for birth or for fame -
All these used to have something to do with young ladies changing their name.
There's no reason now to despond, or go and do any thing rash,
For you'll do though you can't raise a cent if you'll only raise a moustache!
A moustache - a moustache - if you'll only raise a moustache.

Your head may be thick as a block, and empty as any foot-ball,
Oh! your eyes may be green as the grass; your heart just as hard as a wall.
Yet take the advice that I give: you'll soon gain affection and cash
And will be all the rage with the girls if you'll only get a moustache.
A moustache - a moustache - if you'll only get a moustache.

I once was in sorrow and tears because I was jilted you know,
So right down to the river I ran to quickly dispose of my woe,
A good friend he gave me advice and timely prevented the splash,

Now at home I've a wife and ten heirs, and all through a handsome moustache,
A moustache - a moustache - and all through a handsome moustache.


I'LL BE A SERGEANT

H.A.W. (Unknown)

I'll be a Sergeant, an orderly Sergeant,
I'll be a Sergeant, on that just bet your life;
I'll make the boys so sick of
Marching on the double quick,
They'll be glad to turn in, to dream of a wife.

Chorus
For the girls, they must love and adore us,
Who fight for the country that bore us,
And happy shall we be,
If they kiss you and me,
When we come marching home.
Marching home, marching home, marching home,
Marching home to the roll of the drum,
When peace shall call us back
From the camp and bivouac,
And the drum taps, "Marching home."

She sha'nt be Cap'n, that must not happen,
She sha'nt be Cap'n, but play the second fife;
We can bear the colors best,
She shall wear them on her breast,
Salute us, and "dress" - and in short, be our wife.

Should I be Col'nel, gazetted in the Journal,
Oh, should I be Col'nel, to lead in the strife,
For her sake, so proud I'd be,
And let every Rebel see,
How a man can fight for a flag and a wife!

Final Chorus
For, dear girls, we soldiers adore you;
Make us brave through your love, we implore you!
Then happy shall we be
To bend the suppliant knee,
When we come marching home.
Marching home, marching home, marching home,
Marching home to the roll of the drum.

Then, freed from war's alarms,
To you we'll yield our arms,
When the drum taps, "Marching home!"


I'LL TWINE 'MID THE RINGLETS
Words By Maud Irving
Music By Joseph Philbrick Webster
1860
To the tune of WILDWOOD FLOWER

I'll twine 'mid the ringlets of my raven black hair
The lilies so pale and the roses so fair;
The myrtle so bright with an emerald hue,
And the pale aronatus with eyes of bright blue;
The myrtle so bright with an emerald hue,
And the pale aronatus with eyes of bright blue.

I'll sing and I'll dance, my laugh shall be gay;
I'll cease this wild weeping - drive sorrow away.
Tho' my heart is now breaking, he never shall know
That "his" name made me tremble and my pale cheeks to glow;
Tho' my heart is now breaking, he never shall know
That "his" name made me tremble and my pale cheeks to glow.

I'll think of him never - I'll be wildly gay;
I'll charm ev'ry heart, and the crowd I will sway.
I'll live yet to see him regret the dark hour
When he won, then neglected, the frail wildwood flower;
I'll live yet to see him regret the dark hour
When he won, then neglected, the frail wildwood flower.

He told me he loved me and promis'd to love,
Through ill and misfortune, all others above;
Another has won him - Ah, misery to tell -
He left me in silence - no word of farewell;
Another has won him - Ah, misery to tell -
He left me in silence - no word of farewell.

He taught me to love him, he call'd me his flower
That blossom'd for him all the brighter each hour;
But I woke from my dreaming - my idol was clay;
My visions of love have all faded away;
But I woke from my dreaming - my idol was clay;
My visions of love have all faded away.


I'M GOING HOME TO DIXIE

Daniel Decatur Emmett

There is a land where cotton grows, a land where milk and honey flows,
I'm going home to Dixie; yes; I am going home.

Chorus
I've got no time to tarry, I've got no time to stay;
'Tis a rocky road to travel, to Dixie far away.
I've got no time to tarry, I've got no time to stay,
'Tis a rocky road to travel, to Dixie far away.

I will climb up the highest hill, and sing your praise with right good will.
I'm going home to Dixie; yes; I am going home.

I've wander'd far, both to and fro', but Dixie's heaven here below.
I'm going home to Dixie; yes, I am going home.

O list to what I've got to say: freedom to me will never pay!
I'm going home to Dixie; yes; I am going home.

A shadow and a phantom frail, the mighty truth it must prevail!
I'm going home to Dixie; yes; I am going home.


In Dixie Land the fields do bloom and color'd men have welcome room.
I'm going home to Dixie; Yes; I am going home.

I will proclaim it loud and long: I love old Dixie, right or wrong.
I'm going home to Dixie; Yes; I am going home.


I'M GOING TO FIGHT MIT SIEGEL
Words By John F. Poole
To the tune of THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME
See also I GO TO FIGHT MIT SIGEL

I've come shust now to tell you how I goes mit regimentals,
To "schlauch" dem foes of liberty like dem old continentals
Vot fights mit England long ago to save de Yankee eagle.
Un now I gets mine sojer clothes, I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

Chorus
Yaw! daus is drue, I shpeaks mit you, 
I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

Ven I comes from de Deutsche countree, I vorks somedimes at baking,
Den I keeps a lager bier saloon, un den I goes shoemaking;
But now I was a sojer been to save de Yankee eagle,
To schlauch dem tam secession volks, I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

I gets ein tam big rifle guns, un puts him to mine shoulder,
Den march so bold, like a big jack-horse, un may been someding bolder;
I goes off mit de volunteers, to save de Yankee Eagle,
To give dem rebel vellers fits, I'm going to fight mit Sigel.

Dem Deutschen mans mit Sigel's band, at fighting have no rival,
Un ven Cheff Davis' mans we meet, ve schlauch 'em like de tuyvil;
Dere's only von ting vot I fear, ven pattling for de Eagle:
I von't get no lager bier ven I goes to fight mit Sigel.

For rations dey give salty pork - I dinks dat was a great sell;
I petter likes de sour krout, de switzer kaise un pretzel.
If "Fighting Joe" will give us dem, ve'll save de Yankee Eagle;
Un I'll put mine vrou in breechaloons to go un fight mit Sigel.

See Prof. Brooks' Ball Room Monitor, it will give you more Instruction in Dancing than any book ever Published. Sold by Johnson, No. 7 North Tenth Street, Philadelphia. Sung by H. W. Egan


I'm Gwine Lay Down My Heavy Load
Negro Spiritual

Chorus
Oh, bye an' bye, bye an' bye,
I'm gwine lay down my heavy load.
Oh, bye an' bye, bye an' bye,
I'm gwine lay down my heavy load.

I'm troubled, I'm troubled,
I'm troubled in mind;
If Jesus don't help me,
I surely will die.


I'm Not Ashamed To Own My Lord

I'm not ashamed to own my Lord,
Or to defend His cause;
Maintain the honor of His Word,
The glory of His cross.

Jesus, my God! I know His Name,
His Name is all my trust;
Nor will He put my soul to shame,
Nor let my hope be lost.

Firm as His throne His promise stands,
And He can well secure
What I've committed to His hands
Till the decisive hour.


Then will He own my worthless name
Before His Father's face,
And in the new Jerusalem
Appoint my soul a place.

 

I'm Seventeen Come Sunday

As I walked out one May morning,
One May morning so early,
I overtook a handsome maid
Just as the sun was rising.

Chorus
With my rue dum day
Fol the diddle dol
Fol the dol th diddle dum, the day.

Her shoes were bright,
Her stockings white,
Her buckles shone like silver;
She had a black and roving eye
And her hair hung down her shoulder.


How old are you, my fair pretty maid?
How old are you, my honey?
She answered me right cheerfully,
"I'm seventeen come Sunday."

I went down to her mammy's house -
The moon was shining clearly -
I sang beneath her window pane,
"Your soldier loves you dearly."

"Oh, soldier, won't you marry me?
For now's your time or never,
For if you do not marry me,
My heart is broke forever."


And now she is the soldier's wife,
And sails across the brine-o;
The drum and fife is her delight,
And a merry man in mine, Oh!



I'M STANDING BY YOUR GRAVE, MOTHER

OR,
THE ORPHAN'S LAMENT
Words By Sarah T. Bolton
Music By Joseph Philbrick Webster
1855

I'm standing by your grave, Mother, the winds are sobbing wild,
And the wintry stars look dimly down upon your orphan child.
Dark clouds are wreathed along the sky in many a heavy fold
And the moonlight on the frosty grass gleams very pale and cold;
And the moonlight on the frosty grass gleams very pale and cold.

We had a happy home, Mother, upon the mountain side,
When the summer birds sang all day long before dear Father died;
Then, Mother dear, your cheek grew pale and paler ev'ry day
Until at last the angels came and bore you, too, away;
Until at last the angels came and bore you, too, away.

I had a gentle sister then - she is not with me now,
For the gloomy shadow of the grave lies on her baby brow;
And strangers meet around the fire upon the old hearth stone -
Oh, Mother, in the cold wide world, I'm all alone, alone.
Oh, Mother, in the cold wide world, I'm all alone, alone.

I'm standing by your grave mother, no human form is near;
And the fitful meaning of the wind is all the sound I hear;
I tremble when the old trees toss their shadows to and fro,

But I'll shut my eyes, and say my prayers you taught me long ago;
But I'll shut my eyes, and say my prayers you taught me long ago.

The morning sun looked gently down o'er frozen wold and wild,
And kissed the little pallid face of that poor orphan child;
She felt no more the stinging cold, nor heard the tempest rave;
The snow wreath was her winding sheet upon her mother's grave.
The snow wreath was her winding sheet upon her mother's grave.

Written and affectionately inscribed to her friend Harriet J. Bassett by Sarah T. Bolton.


In Evil Long I Took Delight

In evil long I took delight,
Unawed by shame or fear, 
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopped my wild career. 

I saw one hanging on a tree
In agonies and blood; 
He fixed his languid eyes on me,
As near his cross I stood. 

O, never, till my latest breath,
Shall I forget get that look; 
It seemed to charge me with his death,
Though not a word he spoke. 

My conscience felt and owned the guilt;

It plunged me in despair; 
I saw my sins his blood had spilt,
And helped to nail him there. 

A second look he gave, which said,
"I freely all forgive; 
This blood is for thy ransom paid;
I die that thou mayst live." 

Thus, while his death my sin displays
In all its darkest hue, 
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too. 


In The Louisiana Lowlands
Words & Music Anonymous
1859

Way down in Louisiana
Not many years ago
There liv'd a color'd gemblum,
His name was Pompy Snow;
He play'd upon de banjo
And on de tambourine,
And for rattling of the bones he was
The greatest ever seen.
In the Louisiana lowlands lowlands low,
In the Louisiana lowlands low.

Chorus
In the Louisiana lowlands, lowlands low,
In the Louisiana lowlands low.


One night old Pompy started off
To play for Ceasar Clum,
But afore he went he fortified
With a good stout glass of rum;
When on the road he thought he saw
A darkey, tall and grim,
So Pompy laid the banjo down
To break the darkey's shin.
In the Louisiana lowlands lowlands low,
In the Louisiana lowlands low.

Says he, "Old chap, just move along
Or else I'll spoil your face;"
But dis darkey didn't seem to move
From out his hiding place.
So drawing back, he crooked his head,
And down at him - cachunk!
But Pompy made a sad mistake, for

'Twas nothing but a stump.
In the Louisiana lowlands lowlands low,
In the Louisiana lowlands low.

The stump, it proved a little hard -
Too hard for Pompy's wool -
For when he struck, the hickory knot
Went thru' the darkey's skull;
They found his banjo by his side,
And Pompy lying dead,

SPOKEN
"And Ladies and Gentlemen, this is
The first time up a record that it was ever known
of a darkey's ever coming to his death -"

By de breaking of his head.
And dey buried him in the lowlands, lowlands low,
In the Louisiana lowlands low.



THE INFANTRY
To the tune of O TANNENBAUM

Our army is a motley crew in dress and armor - duties, too;
And each and all I love to see, though most I prize the Infantry.
In tent, in field, in ladys' bower alike they shine - all fear their power;
Though other corps are dear to me, yet most I love the Infantry.

Chorus
The Infantry, the Infantry, who would not love the Infantry?
Though other corps are dear to me, yet most I love the Infantry.

The engineer with science crown'd in action traces out the ground;
Artillery at a distance play, and troopers often clear the way.
A skirmish sharp, a pistol shot, the quick retreat in rapid trot;
The foe advances light and free - who meets them now? The Infantry.

And see the gallant hosts move on, their bayonets glitt'ring in the sun;
On, on it holds its glorious way though death shots 'round it madly play.
Their comrades slain, their banners torn, those noble hearts still proudly
form,
And - Hark! - a shout, "'Tis victory!" Who would not love the Infantry?


The Irish Brigade
To the tune of THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

There's an Island on earth, which clearly has shown
By the sad and late battle fought at Bull-Run,
That will lend us a hand, in this hour of need,
And restore us peace, with the greatest of speed;
And restore us peace, with the greatest of speed.

Say: which is the Island to give us such aid?
Or that will give us an intrepid Brigade?
'Tis the GEM OF THE SEA - the WEST OF JOHN BULL -
Which, from Secession's head, Jeff Davis will pull;
Which, from Secession's head, Jeff Davis will pull.

Its Brigade is now ready to march from YORK,
Straightway to the battlefield to do such work,
Led on by the undaunted General Shields,
Never more to return till Jeff Davis yields;
Never more to return till Jeff Davis yields.

Say: will it succeed in giving such relief,
Or be sure to arrest old Floyd the Gun-Thief?

Yes, yes; it will quickly restore us to peace;
It can do so, we know, with the greatest of ease;
It can do so, we know, with the greatest of ease.

As an instance of this, we'll cite: Fontenoy!
The mention of which gives Irish hearts joy!
Next in importance, the Battle of Bull Run,
And Memorable Siege of sweet Lexington;
And Memorable Siege of sweet Lexington.

Then, cheer up! Union hearts, do not despair!
While Erin is with us, we've nothing to fear;
With Shields as a General, 't will e'er prove true
To the Home of the Free--the Red, White, and Blue!
To the Home of the Free--the Red, White, and Blue!

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


IRISH EMIGRANT'S LAMENT

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side
On a bright May morning, long ago when first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lips, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, and the day as bright as then;
And the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,
But I'll not forget you darling, in the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland were it fifty times as fair.

But often in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies.
And I'll think I see the little stile, where we sat side by side,
On the bright May morning long ago, when first you were my bride.


THE IRISH JAUNTING CAR
To the tune of THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG

My name is Larry Doolan, I'm a native of the soil,
If you want a day's diversion, I'll drive you out in style.
My car is painted red and green, and on the door a star,
And the pride of Dublin City is my Irish jaunting car.

Chorus
Then if you want to hire me, step into Mickey Mar's,
And ask for Larry Doolan and his Irish jaunting cars.

When Queen Victoria came to Ireland her health to revive,
She asked the Lord Lieutenant to take her out to ride.
She replied unto his greatness, before they traveled far,
How delightful was the jogging of the Irish jaunting car.

I'm hired by drunken men, teetotalers, and my friends,
But a carman has so much to do, his duty never ends;
Night and day, both wet and dry, I travel near and far,
And at night I count the earnings of my Irish jaunting car.

Some say the Russian bear is tough, and I believe it's true,
Though we beat them at the Alma and Balaklava, too.
But if our Connaught Rangers would bring home the Russian Czar,
I would drive them off to blazes in my Irish Jaunting Car.

Some say all wars are over, and I hope to God they are
For you know full well they never were good for a jaunting car.
But peace and plenty - may they reign here both near and far -
Then we'll drive to feasts and festivals in an Irish jaunting car.

They say they are in want of men, the French and English too,
And it's all about their commerce now they don't know what to do;
But if they come to Ireland our jolly sons to mar,
I'll drive them to the devil in my Irish jaunting car.

Andrews, Printer, 38 Chatham St., N. Y.,
Songs, Games, Toys, Books, Motto Verses, &c., Wholesale and Retail.
Sung with Tremendous Applause, by J. B. SMITH, the Celebrated Irish Vocalist.


Irish Volunteer

My name is Tim McDonald,
I'm a native of the Isle,
I was born among old Erin's bogs
When I was but a child.
My father fought in " 'Ninety-eight,"
For liberty so dear;
And he fell upon old Vinegar Hill
Like an Irish volunteer.

Chorus
Then raise the harp of Erin, boys,
The flag we all revere -
We'll fight and fall beneath its folds,
Like Irish volunteers!

When I was driven form my home
By an oppressor's hand,
I cut my sticks and greased my brogues,
And came o'erto this land.
I found a home and many friends,
And some that I love dear;
Be jabbers! I'll stick to them
Like bricks and an Irish volunteer.

Chorus
Then fill your glasses up, my boys,
And drink a heartycheer,
To the land of our adoption
And the Irish volunteer!

Now when the traitors in the south
Commenced a warlike raid,
I quickly then laid down my hod,
To the devil went my spade!
To a recruiting-office then I went,
That happened to be near,
And joined the good old "Sixty-ninth,"
Like an Irish volunteer.

Chorus
Then fill the ranks and march away!
No traitors do we fear;
"We'll drive them all to blazes,"
Says the Irish volunteer.

When the Prince of Wales came over here,
And made a hubbaboo,
Oh, everybody turned out, you know,
In gold and tinsel, too;
But then the good old Sixty-ninth
Didn't like these lords or peers -
They wouldn't give a damn for kings,
The Irish volunteers!

Chorus
We love the land of Liberty,
Its laws we will revere;
"But the divil take nobility!"
Says the Irish volunteer!

Now if the traitors in the South
Should ever cross our roads,
We'll drive them to the divil,
As Saint Patrick did the toads;
We'll give them all short nooses
That come just below the ears,
Made strong and good of Irish hemp
By Irish volunteers.

Chorus
Then here's to brave McClellan,
Whom the army now reveres -
He'll lead us on to victory,
The Irish volunteers.

Now fill your glasses up, my boys,
A toast come drink with me,
May Erin's Harp and the Starry Flag
United ever be;
May traitors quake, and rebels shake,
And tremble in their fears,
When next they meet the Yankee boys
And Irish volunteers!

Chorus
God bless the name of Washington!
That name this land reveres;
Success to Meagher and Nugent,
And their Irish volunteers.

 


The Irish Wide-Awake
Words By Harry M. Palmer
To the tune of BILLY O'ROURKE

As I walked out one evening,
I think 'twas in October,
I came across a jolly blade,
A rale ould fashioned to per;
He axed me would I go wid him,
And tould me: none should harm me,
Will give you soup and chowder too.
In Lincoln's torch-light army.

Chorus: Fal di ral &c.

--Army? says I, be gobs! I'll not,
Although I'm fond of chowder;
I'd rather hungry go by far
Than muss wid guns and powdher.
--You are mistaken, friend, says he,
We join'd on this condition:
Our muskets are ould-Abe's split rails.
And oil's our ammunition.

Fal di ral &c.

To Cooper Institute we went:
It fairly made my head sick
To hear the spaker spout and blow
About nagers, rails, and conflicts.
He tould how Abe had often trailed
The wild Cats, Bears, and Panthers;
But forgot to mention ould John Brown,
As well as bleedin Kansas.

Fal di ral &c.

Upon my head they put a cap,
And a cape upon my shoulders,
And stuck a big torch in my fist:
No wide-awake was boulder.
Now what they gave me thim clothes for?
I niver could diskiver;
But I think the torch was meant to light
Abe Lincoln up Salt-River

Fal di ral &c.

H. DE MARSAN.  Songs, Ballads, toy books.  38 & 60 Chatham St. N. Y.
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860,
By H. DE MARSAN, In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States,
For the Southern District of New York.


The Irishman's Shanty
Words By George W. Osborn

Did ye's ever go int'ill an Irishman's shanty?
Och! b'ys, that's the place where the whisky is plenty;
Whith his pipe in his mouth, there sits Paddy so free,
No King in his palace is prouder than he!
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

There's a three-legged stool, with a table to match,
And the door of the shanty is locked with a latch;
There's a rate feather mattrass all bustin' with straw,
For the want of a bedstead, it lies on the floor.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

There's a snug little bureau, without paint or gilt,
Made of boords that was left when the shanty was built;
There's a three-cornered mirror hangs on the wall,
But divil the face has been in it at all.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

He has pigs in the sty, and a cow in the stable,
And he feeds them on scraps that is left from the table;
They'd starve if confined, so they roam at their aise,
And come into the shanty whinever they plaise.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

He has three rooms in one -- kitchen, bed-room, and hall
And his chist it is three wooden pegs in the wall;
Two suits of owld clothes makes his warderobe complete,
One to wear in the shanty, that same for the street.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

He can relish good victuals as ever ye's ate,
But is always continted with praties and mate;
He prefers them when cowld (if he can't get them hot)
And makes tay in a bowl, when he can't get a pot.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

He heeds not the rain, though it comes in a flood,
For the roof of the shanty is shingled with mud.
There's a hole at one end makes a chimney so neat
For the smoke and the sparks from the fire to retreat.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

There's one who partakes of his sorrows and joys,
Attends to the shanty, the girls and the boys;
(The brats he thinks more of than gold that's refined.)
But Biddy's the jewel that's set in his mind.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

The rich may divide their enjoyments alone,
With those who have riches as great as their own,
But Pat hangs the latch-string outside of his door,
And will share his last cent with the needy and poor.
Arrah! me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy!

H. DE MARSAN, PUBLISHER, 60 CHATHAM STREET, N.Y. 
TOY BOOKS, PAPER DOLLS, MOTTO VERSES, &c.

 


IT IS MY COUNTRY'S CALL

Harry MacCarthy
1861

I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow in my heart,
It is my country's call, dear, to aid her I depart;
And on the blood-red battle plain we'll conquer or we'll die,
'T'is for our honor and our name, we raise the battle cry.

Chorus
Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in her cause I fall;
O, weep not dearest, weep not - it is my country's call.

And yet my heart is sore, love, to see thee weeping thus;
But mark me, there's no fear, love, for in Heaven is our trust.
And if the heavy, drooping tear swells in my mournful eye,
It is that Northmen of our land should cause the battle cry.

Our rights have been usurped, dear, by Northmen of our land,
Fanatics raised the cry, dear, politicians fired the brand.
The Southrons spurn the galling yoke, the tyrant's threats defy.
They find we've sons like sturdy oak to raise the battle cry.

I knew you'd let me go, pet - I saw it in that tear -
To join the gallant men, pet, who never yet knew fear.
With Beauregard and Davis, we'll gain our cause or die,
Win battles like Manassas and raise our battle cry.


I'VE RAMBLED THIS COUNTRY
BOTH EARLY AND LATE

See PRETTY POLLY


Home