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lee's songbook


Words By Tom Robinson

Paddy, mavourneen, ye have but one eye,
The other is blackened all over wid' dye;
Come, Paddy, now tell me where you've been tonight?
"Be jabbers, I've been in a very great fight.
Ye see, 'twas them fellows that KNOW-BODY KNOWS
Gave me a black eye and most beautiful nose;
And had it not been for a red-headed 'mick,'
Be Saint Patrick, they'd kill'd me in spite of my stick!"

Paddy, my honey, what makes you blue?
Somebody's been playing the devil with you!
"Ah! Bridget, my darling, how can I look gay
When the bloody 'Knownothings' have carried the day?"

Our party was thirty, all armed wid' big sticks -
Sure we'd knock 'em about like a thousand of bricks;
At the villains we went, we "brave men of the hod,"
An' I gav' a big 'Yankee' a belt in the gob.
"Wide Awake!' was their war cry, from near and from far;
We answered their challenge wid' "'Erin-go-bragh."
On my eye I then got a wee bit of a whack,
Which laid me right out on the broad of my back.

Wid' sprigs of shelalah so bravely we fought,
We'd belt them like blazes, so all of us thought;
But the hard-fisted Yankees they bate us so swate,
That all of us Irishmen had to retrate.
"Now I tell you one thing, an' that you may note -
I'll keep far away from the place where they vote;
For I'll tell ye'se the truth, and it's no mistake -
We found the Knownothings were all WIDE AWAKE."

Andrews' Printer, 38 Chatham St., N. Y.,
Dealer in Songs, Toy Books, Motto Verses, &c.,
Wholesale and Retail.

Paddy's Lament

Och hone! and alas! for the sons of ould Erin
Long will they rue the unfortunate day
They took lave of their butthermilk pratties and herrin
And all to sup sorrow across the salt say.

Sure it was our intintion to rule the poor craythurs,
And tach them to live in respectable style
But there's so little sinse in their haythenish nathurs
The divil a thank do we get for our toils.

Them Know Nothing chaps have upset all our labours
Wid the stupid consate that the country's their own -
They think they can rule it thimselves, but, be jabers,
They aren't more fit than the man in the moon.

But little I dramed we'd be licked by such ninnies,
In spite of the Murphy's, O'Toole's and O'Moore's,
O'Rafferties, Phalons, O'Rourke's and McKinnies,
That were naturalized by the coort in Galores.

'Twas meself that was placed by the hole in the windy,
To see that the boys did not vote the wrong way -
And ye'd better belave we'd kicked up a shindy
If we'd seen the laste chance of losing the day.

Each broth of a boy had as clane a shillalah
As ever cracked nitts on a Know Nothing's pate -
And the Natives looked blue as we flourished them gaily,
And yelled ourselves hoorse for our bowld candidate.

'Tis a murtherin' shame how our party was chated
By the imp they called "Sam" wid his beggarly crow,
And thin, not contint that our boys were defated
By their villainous tricks, they insulted us, too.

Sure the counthry's undone when the likes of sich fellies
Are sint to make laws aginst whiskey, forsooth!
Of our shuperior janus it's plain they are jilous -
The ignorant boobies, and that's jist the truth!

Bad luck has come over the sons of ould Erin,
It's long they'll repint the unforthunate day
They left their swate butthermilk, praties and herrin
To govern the naythin ayont the salt say. 




Och, Biddy dear, do you remember whin we last did meet?
'Twas at Paddy Murphy's party down in Baxter Street;
And there all the boys did envy me, and the girls envy'd you -
Whin they saw my great big bounty in Greenbacks, all new.

Och, weepin', Biddy darlin', for the Paymaster's tin;
Whin this cruel war is over, praying.... for a good horn of gin.

Next day, I shoulder'd my ould musket, braver thin Ould Mars;
And, with spirits light and airy, marched off to the wars.
But now me drame of glory's over - I'm homesick, I fear;
I'd give this world for a substitute to take my place here.

Och, Biddy darlin', things are changing since I left New-York;
There, I got good beef steak plenty - now I get salt pork;
And the crackers, Biddy jewel, for to tell the truth,
They are harder than a brickbat and wud break yer tooth.

Whin the cabbages are blooming, beautiful and strong;
Or whin whisky-punch is brewin' - mournful is my song;
In me drames, I often see ye walking with that blackguard Tim;
Oh! if I could only get a furlough, wouldn't I slather him?

William H. Hanford

We're drinking tonight in the old barroom;
Give us a glass to cheer.
And merry, merry will we be,
Drinking of th' lager-beer.

Many are the hearts that are jolly tonight
As we sit around the cards;
Many are the games we'll play here tonight
For th' good old lager-beer.
Drinking tonight, drinking tonight,
Drinking in the old barroom.

We've been drinking tonight in the old barroom,
We'll fill our glasses again.
And drink to the Bummers that meet with us here,
And toast them the best of men!

We'll never get tired of the old barroom,
Of ale and lager-beer;
And never forget our friends who've died
By drinking good lager-beer!

We've been drinking all night in the old barroom;
Many the glass we've drunk;
But now our hearts are getting light;
Let us drink to th' passing night!


Parting Friends
Lyrics From The Social Lyrist
To the tune of AULD LANG SYNE

Farewell, my friends, I'm bound for Canaan,
I'm trav'ling through the wilderness;
Your company has been delightful,
You, who doth leave my mind distressed.
I go away, behind to leave you,
Perhaps never to meet again,
But if we never have the pleasure,
I hope we'll meet on Canaan's land.

From The Social Lyrist, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, 1840


Oh, of all the money that e'er I had,
I spent it in good company;
And of all the harm that e'er I've done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall;
So fill to me the parting glass -
Good night and joy be with you all.

Oh, of all the friends that e'er I had,
They're sorry at my going away;
And of all the sweethearts that ever I had,
They wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I softly rise and I gently call -
Goodnight and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town
Who sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own, she has my heart in thrall;
So fill to me the parting glass -
Good night and joy be with you all.

Pat Murphy Of Meagher's Brigade

'Twas the night before battle, and gathered in groups,
The soldiers lay close in their quarters;
They were thinking, no doubt, of the dear ones at home -
Of mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters.
With a pipe in his mouth sat a dashing young blade,
And a song he was lilting quite gaily;
It was honest Pat Murphy, of Meagher's Brigade,
And he sang of the Sprig of Shillaly.

"Och murdher!" says Pat, "It's a shame for to see
Brothers fighting in such a quare manner;
But I'll fight till I die, (if I shouldn't be kilt)
For America's bright Starry Banner.
Now, if only it was John Bull to the fore,
I'd rush into battle quite gaily;
For the spalpeen I'd rap with a heart and a half
With my illigant Sprig of Shillaly!"

"Jeff Davis you thief! if I had you but here,
Your beautiful plans I'd be ruinin';
Faix! I'd give ye the taste of me bayonet, bedad!
For thrying to burst up the Union:
There's a crowd in the North, too, an' they're just as bad;
Abolitionist spouters so scaly -
For throubling the naigers I think they desarve
A whack from a Sprig of Shillaly!"

The morning soon came, an' poor Paddy awoke
On the Rebels to have satisfaction;
The drummers were beating the divil's tattoo,
Calling the boys into action.
Then the Irish Brigade in the battle was seen,
Their blood, in our cause, shedding freely;
With their bayonet charges they rushed on the foe,
With a shout for the Land of Shillaly!

The battle was over, the dead lay in heaps,
Pat Murphy lay bleeding and gory;
A hole through his head, from a rifleman's shot,
Had finished his passion for glory;
No more in the camp shall his laughter be heard
Or his voice singing ditties so gaily;
Like a hero he died, for the Land of the Free,
Far away from the Land of Shillaly.

Then, surely, Columbia can never forget,
While valor and fame hold communion,
How nobly the brave Irish Volunteers fought
In defense of the Flag of our Union;
And, if ever Old Ireland for Freedom should strike,
We'll a helping hand offer quite freely;
And the Stars and the Stripes shall be seen alongside
Of the Flag of the Land of Shillaly!

honest pat murphy


Says Pat to his mother, "It looks strange
To see brothers fighting in such a queer manner,
But I'll fight till I die if I never get killed
For America's bright starry banner."

Far away in the East was a dashing young blade
And the song he was singing so gaily,
'Twas honest Pat Murphy of the Irish Brigade,
And the song of the splintered shillelagh.

The morning soon broke and poor Paddy awoke -
He found Rebels to give satisfaction;
And the drummers were beating the Devil's sad tune:
They were calling the boys into action.

Sure, the day after battle, the dead lay in heaps,
And Pat Murphy lay bleeding and gory
With a hole through his head by some enemy's ball
That ended his passion for glory.

No more in the camp will his letters be read,
Or his song be heard singing so gaily;
But he died far away from the friends that he loved,
And far from the land of shillelagh.

During the Civil War, the Irish distinguished themselves fighting for both sides.  Numerically more Irishmen fought for the Federal side, but the Irish on both sides were noted for their ferocity and bravery.  

During the Civil War, numerous songs praised the Irishman's well-documented courage under fire, such as MEAGHER IS LEADING THE IRISH BRIGADE, and CORCORAN'S IRISH LEGION.  The Confederacy, too, had songs about Irish-Americans, such as KELLY'S IRISH BRIGADE, a reworked song from a northern broadside with that substituted Confederate references for the Federal ones. 

Few of these songs have survived the passage of years and the test of time.  HONEST PAT MURPHY is one that has survived to this day.  Originally named PAT MURPHY OF MEAGHER'S BRIGADE, it has lost specific references to General Thomas Meagher of New York, and came to represent a more generic Irish Federal soldier in a generic Irish Federal brigade.  

The same melody was used for a comic Confederate song written by Charles L. Ward, titled THINK OF YOUR HEAD IN THE MORNING. 

patchwork song
Words By W. Dexter Smith, Jr.
Music By S. Nelson

As I walked down the street I observed by the way,
Placed along on the railings, The Songs of the day,
Of the words of the songs, I have not time to tell,
But the names of them all I remember quite well,
There were those which amused me, while reading them through,
If you'll listen awhile I will sing them to you,
I have written them down, in a queer kind of verse,
And I trust you'll accept them, for better or for worse.

There was "Little Maggie Dale," "Riding in a Railroad Car,"
"Near the Banks of that Lone River" "I will smoke my last Cigar,"
"Sing to me those dear Old Songs," "When the Swallows Homeward fly,"
"I'll be no submissive wife," "Mother, I've come home to die,"
"Listen to the Mocking Bird," "There is Music in the Air,"
"Let me Kiss him for his Mother," There will be a "Vacant Chair,"
"If I had Some One to love me," "I'd be gay and happy still,"
"Tell me, is my father coming," with the "Sword of Bunker Hill"

"She is Waiting for us There," "In the Cottage by the Sea."
"Jennie with the Light-Brown Hair," "Will you go along with Me,"
"In my Dreams Thou'rt ever Near," "We will kiss but never tell,"
"I would choose to be a Daisy," or "A Washington Street Belle,"
"Do they Think of Me at Home," "When the Bloom is on the Rye,"
"We will Rally round the Flag," "Kiss Me, Mother ere I Die."
"Sweet Dreams flitting softly o'er me," "I should rather like to know"
"Is it Anybody's Business, if a Lady has a Beau?"

"Many, many Years ago," "Linda's Gone to Baltimore,"
"I'm a Young Man from the Country," with "The Ring my Mother wore,"
"Bring Thy Shattered Heart to Me," "Ella Leene," "At Evening Hour,"
"Read Me Letters from My Home," "Rosalie, the Prarie [Prairie] Flower,"
"Rock me to Sleep, Mother," with "Sweet Thoughts of Thee,"
"Old Jeff. Davis is a-coming," "Mother Dear Oh Pray for Me,"
"Oh! Darkey don't you Linger," "Come In and Shut the Door,"
"We are coming Father Abraam," with "Three Hundred Dollars More."

"Now The War is Nearly Over," "I will take Thee for my Bride,"
"Oh, how happy I should be," "Ever Sitting by Thy Side,"

"Brothers Fainting at the Door," "Things I Don't Like to See,"
And "I'm Lonely Tonight," "I'v a Welcome for Thee,"
"When I saw Sweet Nellie Home," with "The Folks that put on Airs,"
"Maryland, my Maryland," "You must Mind your own Affairs,"
"Kiss me Quick and Go, my Honey," "In the Old Gum-Tree Canoe,"
"Break it Gently to My Mother," and "The Young Gal dressed in Blue,"

"Memories of Happy Days," with "The Old Arm Chair,"
"We stand Beneath Our Flag," "Upon the Lake so Fair,"
"Oh! Have You Seen my Sister," with "The Jockey Hat and Feather,"
"And Darling Leonore," "We Are Growing Old Together,"
"When this Cruel War is Over," "Johnny Bull must Clear the Track,"
"Where are You Three Hundred Dollars," "You will Nevermore Come Back,"
"There were many, many more," but "I'll finish up my Song"
With "Our Battle-Flag" forever, and "The Union Right or Wrong."

Sung by Buckley's Serenaders, Boston
Sung by Carnecross & Dixey's Minstrels, Philad'a
Music by S. Nelson ; Words by W. Dexter Smith, Jr.
Cleveland : S. Brainard's sons, 1862



The Patriot Mother's Prayer
Protect My Boy

Chant By Joseph Philbrick Webster

Father of love, Infinite God,
Supremest Ruler over all:
"Thou hearest the young raven's cry,
And noteth ev'ry sparrow's fall."
I trust him to Thee! my heart's last joy;
Protect him, Father, bless my boy!

He is my pride, I've wonder'd oft
What off'ring I could bring to Thee;
And when his eyes, with love dews soft,
Were raised in prayer for him or me,
I did not dream that war's alloy
Could come to us, my darling boy!

Bless my boy, oh! bless my boy!
Protect him, Father! bless my boy!

My nation's flag, Liberty's shrine,
Vile traitor's hands have now defiled,
For Freedom's, take this gift of mine,
I have naught else - oh, take my child.
Oh! Father, forbid them to destroy
Our country, but protect my boy!

Bless my boy, oh! bless my boy!
Protect him, Father! bless my boy!

But if - oh! God, spare me that woe -
He ne'er should tell of vict'ry won,
His cold form on the field lay low -
I'll say, "Thy will, and mine, be done;"
Then with those souls in endless joy,
I'll praise Thee with my fallen boy!


Words By A. Anderson
To the tune of KINGDOM COMING

O darkies, I'se a-gwine in de Armey, and I'se called a Contraband;
I'se a-gwine to jine de Union Armey and march through Dixie land.
I den be dressed in Regimentals, and a knapsack on my back,
With my musket at a shoulder arms, full up my habersack.

O darkies, I'se a-gwine to make de cannon roar,
O come and jine de Union Armey and end dis cruel war.

De drums will beat terra, ta, ta, ta, as we march along de street;
We'll step it off in two-four timing it, so gracefully and neat.
De band den play, E cornet leading, and de bass drum boom de time;
In steady column we be moving up to de rebel line.

And when we reach de foe, Jeff Davis, O, den we see de fun;
We'll blaze away, den bayonet charging, den see de Rebels run.
We'll keep it up on quick and double, and make dar lines to reel;
We'll break dem down, we give dem trouble, and chase dem toe to heel.

And when dis cruel war is o'er, returning to our homes,
Den Tambo take de tamborine and Bazzel take de bones;
Ole Uncle Ned take down de fiddle and rosin up de bow,
Young Jake strike up the old triangle, and Sam de ole Banjo.


Did you hear tell of Paddy's Museum,
Its ancient and modern antiques?
If not, when ye hear, ye'll see  'em,
Of their fame all old Ireland spakes.
I was always consider'd a lover
Of antiquities, sure from my birth,
And did somehow or other discover
What nobody else could on earth.

So don't talk about Barnum's Museum;

If in passin' my house you will stop,
There's things you'll be stuck for the seein'
In Paddy's curiosity shop.

I've been twinty-nine times round the globe,
And niver took sleep night or day;
I've had double the patience uv Job
To bring all these relics away.
With great kindness I have bin trated,
I've bin twice kilt and shot into two -
You'll belave it all whin I've related
My list of curiosities through.

The relic I take the most pride on
Is ould Mother Shipton's birch broom -
The one the ould girl would fly stride on
When she din'd wid the Man in the Moon.
And I've got the mattock and spade
Wid which Adam the ground cultivated,
And an ould furrin' coin that was made
Before iver the world was created.

I've a walking-stick not very pliant -
Don't fancy I'm pitchin' it strong -
It belong'd to the Irish Giant,
An' its just two-and-thirty foot long.
I've his boots, too, an' they are like towers,
A coach you might inside them drive;
If you'd fall in one, och! by the powers!
Ye'd niver be got out alive.

I've the bustle of Jupiter's mother,
And Vanus the goddess's stays;
An' I've got the steel pen, an' no other
Wid which Shakespeare wrote all his plays.
I've got Dr. Dodd's kitchen table,
I've the brains of the fam'd larned pig;
I've the roof off the Tower o' Babel,
An' an Irish Ambassador's wig.

I've got a froze flame from Mount Aetna
That was caught by a man passing by;
I've a sly Cupid's dart forged at Gretna,
An' the lash of Pope Gregory's eye;
I've the toenail of ugly Mahomet,
I've the whiskers off Whittington's cat;
I've got Miss Queen Elizabeth's bonnet,
An' ould Mother Hubbard's cock'd hat.

I've a tree here that lump sugar grows on
Widout aither damage or hurt;
I've a handkerchief Mars blew his nose on,
An' the Queen Otaheita's she-shirt.
An' I've got King Laertes's bowl
That'll hold twenty gallons or more;
An' the very identical roll

That the baker gave Mrs. Jane Shore.

I've got all sorts of relics and stones,
I've got patch'd coats widout any stitches;
I've a portion of Gulliver's bones,
An' a pair uv King David's ould breeches.
I'll conclude now, because my physician
Says singing too much turns the brain;
But I'll give you the second edition
Some night when you drop in again.

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 60 Chatham Street, New York



Comic Banjo Song By Unsworth

Now gather round me, colored folks,
And listen to my ditty:
It's all about a lubly gal,
She libed in dis great city.
Oh, she libed wid her mother up seven pair of stairs, 
In the Bowery street, near Grand,
But her business place was on Broadway,
Where she kept a peanut stand.

There was a young policeman smiled on her,
And he bought her peanuts too;
And she fell in lub wid his German silver star,
And his lovely coat of blue.
They loved each other like the shanghai fowls
That walk about in spring,
And he took her up to Jones's Wood
To hear the Dutchmen sing.

She vowed she'd love him ever more,
And ne'er from him would stray,
But she shook him and left wid an organ grinder -
The boys called him old dog Tray.
They give curbstone concerts on rainy days,
Which has giv' the young gal a bad cough;
And the jealous young policeman, in revenge,
When he sees 'em, he hollers: Walk off!

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

The Peanut-Gal's GHOST
To the tune of ROBINSON CRUSOE

Oh! white folks, I'se come for to sing you a song:
It's one dat I know you'll be pleased at.
I know I ain't fat, but den what ob dat?
I'm a nigger dat's not to be sneezed at.
Now, I don't weigh as much as a fish-ball,
Though once I was fat, plump and hearty;
I'm pining away since I met with, one day,
A peanut-gal, Biddy McCarty.

Miss Biddy and I used to meet on the sly,
And I'd treat her whenever she'd ask it;
And, each day, in the street, she'd smile on me sweet,
Going round selling nuts in a basket.
I thought I was sound on de goose, den,
But I took her, one night, to a party:
Dere, a butcher so stout, he cut me right out,
He stole away Biddy McCarty.

Not long after den, to her house I dropped in,
And wid her I began for to trifle:
When under the bed I saw a red head,
And I pulled out the butcher, my rival.
He pasted me right on the bugle,
Den, at it we went, quick and hearty;
Dey soon kicked me out, and a bat on the snout
I got from Miss Biddy McCarty.

On revenge I was bent: so, to kill them I went,
Though a terrible deed, I must own it:
I cut Biddy's throat wid a bar ob soft-soap,
And I blew out his brains wid a doughnut.
Since den, I've grown lean as a mouse-trap,
Though, once, I was fat, strong, and hearty;
An' now, every night, comes, walking in white,
De Ghost of Miss Biddy McCarty.

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

To the tune of JOE BOWERS

Come, listen to me, white folks,
While I rehearse a ditty;
It's all about a nice young gal,
She lived in Jersey City;
She fell in love with a gay young man;
He was wealthy once in his time,
He was Chief-Engineer of a shoemaker's shop,
And his name was Conny O'Ryan.

Now, Biddy Magee was a handsome gal,
And known both near and far;
She kept a peanut stand in Jersey City,
And supplied the railroad cars;
But when her mother she heard of Conny,
She swore vengeance against his clan,
She said if her daughter kept company with him,
She'd bust up her peanut-stand.

Now, Conny O'Ryan was a man of fame,
And noted far and near;
He'd beat Saint Patrick at "forty-fives,"
A playing for lager-beer;
He got in with a parcel of Jersey ROUGHS;
They led him around like a toy;
So, he joined the New-York Fire-Zoo-Zoos,
And he went for a soger-boy.

When Biddy Magee she heard of this,
She took right to her bed;
The peanut-stand went up the spout,
And the gal she died right dead.
The news took effect on Conny himself
So he never could march to time;
So, out of the camp, in very short time,
They drummed poor Conny O'Ryan.

The old woman's house is haunted now -
At night, about twelve o'clock,
She sees the most horrible sort of a sight,
Which gives her a terrible shock;
The Ghosts of Conny and Biddy Magee
Come walking in hand and hand,
While right behind them comes, marching along,
The Ghost of the peanut-stand.

H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 60 Chatham Street, New York

picking lint
By J.W. Barker

Plying the busy fingers
Over the vestments old,
Not with the weary needle,
Not for some grains of gold;
Thinking of fainting heroes,
Out in the dreary night,
Smitten in Freedom's battle,
First in the gallant fight -

O, bright are the jewels from love's deep mint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint.

Quicker, the blood is flowing,
Hundreds were slain today,
And every warm pulsation's
stealing life away.
"A hundred threads a minute,

A hundred drops of gore,"
The sad and thrilling measures
We've never learned before.

The shadows are weaving a silver tint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint.

We've clad the fallen heroes
With garments we have made,
By light we now are picking,
The fearful tide be stayed;
We lift our hearts to Heaven,
Our Father's blessings crave,
Behold our smitten country,
O bless the fallen brave .

O, bright are the jewels from love's deep mint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint,
God bless the fingers while picking the lint.


To the tune of ROOT HOG OR DIE

We are a gallant band of spirits, fair or foul,
Who glory in our valor and firmness of our soul,
Our watchword is "now go it," so we'll ever cry,
Oh! you Plug Uglies, now - root hog or die.

For we are the native party in the west end who try;
Go it, Plug and Uglies, root 'em out or die.

We don't like the Demmy's, for Fillmore is our boast,
And here in old Maryland he is a perfect host;
Nor do we love the Argus with all its boasted eyes,
For our motto is "ever on" - root hog or die.

There's their Billy Preston: they beat him out of sight;
Nor ever can they run with dandy Pinckney Whyte.
Here among the Uglies, "Proud Davis" is the cry,
Oh! you Plug Uglies, now - root hog or die.

And there's their little nag followed by a Groome
Who is only waiting to get this Fall his doom;
And when they run the stable and throw their highest die,
We show them how the Uglies - root hog or die.

But as we are all natives, and proudly we can brag
As true sons of America, we'll fight beneath its flag;
Nor from the field of honor, never will we fly,
But as good Plug Uglies we'll - root hog or die.

Published at 297 North Gay Street, Baltimore.

The daughter of the Indian Chief Powhattan who was mov'd,
By her eloquent importunities, to save the life of Captain Smith,
His prisoner and doomed, by a Council of war, to a cruel death.

Upon the barren sand
The lonely captive stood:
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red men of the wood.
Like one of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on Ocean's brim;
The Chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head, in air,
The savage war club swung:
The frantic maid, in wild despair,
Her arms around him flung;
Then shook the warriors off the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb,
Subdued by that heroic maid,
Who breathed a prayer for him!

Unbind him! gasp'd the Chief;
It is your King's decree.
He kiss'd away the tears of grief,
And set the captive free!
'Tis ever thus when, in life's storm,
Hope's Star to man grows dim,
An Angel kneels, in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.


Polly Hopkins & Tommy Tompkins
A Duett

Pretty, pretty Polly Hopkins,
How d'ye do? How d'ye do?
None the better, Tommy Tompkins,
For seeing you, for seeing you.
I'm a man of wealth.
Be quiet, pray.
Take all my pelf.
Pray get away.

Oh cruel, cruel Polly Hopkins,
To treat me so, to treat me so.
Oh cruel Tommy Tompkins,
To tease me so, to tease me so.

When we are married, Polly Hopkins,
Which we will be, which we will be.
I hopy the next day, Tommy Tompkins,
To bury thee, to bury thee.
I'll handsome grow,
That I deny.
Though ugly now,
Worse by and by.
Oh! cruel Polly Hopkins,

To tease me so, to tease me so.
Oh! cruel Tommy Tompkins,
To tease me so, to tease me so.

When I am dead, Polly Hopkins,
Remember me, remember me.
With all my heart Tommy Tompkins,
So let it be, so let it be.
Then you'll fret and cry,
Ah! to be sure
To think that I,
Died not before,

Oh! cruel, cruel Polly Hopkins,
To treat me so, to treat me so.
Oh! cruel Tommy Tompkins,
To tease me so, to tease me so.

Pretty, pretty Polly Hopkins,
How d'ye do? how d'ye do?
None the better! Tommy Tompkins,
For seeing you, for seeing you.
I'm a man of wealth,
Be quiet, pray.
Take all my pelf.
Pray get away.

Oh! cruel, cruel - Tommy Tompkins - Polly Hopkins
To tease me so, to tease me so.
Oh! cruel, cruel - Tommy Tompkins - Polly Hopkins
To tease me so, to tease me so.

POLLY, Won't you try me oh?

Down in Skytown liv'd a maid,
Sing song Polly won't you try me oh?
Churning butter was her trade,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
She loved a feller whose name was Will,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
His dad he used to own the mill,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?

Kemo kimo where? oh, there! my high, my low,
Then in comes Sally, singing,
Sometimes, medley, winkum lingtum nip cat,
Sing song Polly, won't you try me, oh?

She wanted Will for worse or better,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
She'd have married, but dad wouldn't let her,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
And so she went and got a knife,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
She broke her heart and lost her life,
Sing song Polly, won't you try me oh?

Then Josh he felt his dander risin',
Sing song Polly won't you try me oh?
So he went and swallowed p'isin,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?
The village folks laughed in their sleeve,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?

For Jordan's a hard road to travel I believe,
Sing song Polly won't you try me, oh?

LOUIS BONSAL, Bookseller, Stationer and Song Publisher,
Corner of Baltimore & Frederick St., Baltimore Md.


Oh, I went down South for to see my Sal -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
For my Sal, she am a spunky gal -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

Fare thee well, fare thee well,
Fare thee well my fairy fay,
For I'm gwine to Lou'siana for to see my Susyanna -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

Oh my Sal, she am a maiden fair -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
With curly eyes and laughing hair -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

I came to a ribber and couldn't get across -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
I jumped on a 'gator and thought he was a hoss -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

A grasshopper sat on a railroad track -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
Pickin' his teeth with a carpet tack -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

Behind the barn, down on my knees -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
I t'ought I heard a rooster cough -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

He sneeze so hard with the whoopin' cough -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
He sneeze his head an' tail right off -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.

Oh, I went to bed, but it warn't no use -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day;
'Cause my feet stuck out like a chicken roost -
Sing Polly Wolly Doodle all the day.


Oh! my name is Pompey Moore -
I'se from ole Virginny shore,
And I neber had any education;
Except now and den a lickin'
Down at de cotton-pickin',
'Way down on de ole plantation.
But just list to me and you will plainly see
Dat I have got some knowledge;
Though I isn't any fool, and I never went to school,
Nor passed into any oder college.

But just list to me and you will plainly see
Dat I have got some knowledge;
Though I isn't any fool, and I never went to school,
Nor passed into any oder college.

Now, you see, it's bery plain:
Dere was ole Massa Cain
Killed his broder 'kase he was bigger;
When he see what he had done,
He tried to cut and run,
But was turned, in a crack, to a nigger.
Now, it's often asked by some:
Whar de niggers dey come from?
But dis is my calculation:
For 'tis easy to explain
Dat ole Massa Cain

Was de daddy ob de nigger population.

It's been de way wid some
Eber since dis world begun,
To bother deir heads about de nigger;
First Bobolition comes to view,
And den Secession, too:
And dis fight is all about de nigger.
You may talk and you may write -
You may work and you may fight,
But what good does eber arise?
You may paint and you may rub,
You may wash and you may scrub,
But a nigger is a nigger till he dies!

Now, white folks, in a trice,
I'll gib you some advice:
Don't get mad because it comes from a moke:
Let de Norf and de Souf
Both shut up deir mouf,
And den you will hit de right stroke.
Let Abolition die,
And Secession keep shy,
And de Norf and de Souf shake hands;
And now, white folks, hear me:
Just leave de nigger be;
For, I tell you dey isn't worth a cent.

As sung by J. T. Boyce of Hooley's Minstrels.
H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York.


As I seen the folks now that I think is disarming,
I'll tell you where I come from, and where I got my larning.
I'm hot from old Virginia, where you find all the great men;
I'm Pompey Smash, one of the principal statesmen.
I'm second best to none
On dis side de sun,
And by the gosh I weigh, without my head, half a ton.

I'll tell you about a fight now I had with Davy Crocket,
That's half Coon, half Horse, and half Sky Rocket.
I met him one day, as he go out a-gunning,
I ask him where he going, and he say he going a-cooning.
Then I ask him where he gun,
And he say he got none;
Den I say, Davy, how you going to hunt without one?

O, says he, Pompey Smash, just come along with Davy,
I'll very soon show you how to grin a coon crazy.
I follow right arter him, till Davy seed a squirrel
Setting on a pine knot, eating sheep sorrel,
Den he stand right still,
And he gin for me to feel;
O, says he, Pompey Smash, let me brace agin your heel.

Den I stretch out my heel, and I brace up de sinner,
Den Davy gin to grin hard for his dinner,
But de critter did not move, nor did not seem to mind him,
But still kept a eatin', and never look'd behind him.
At last Davy said,
He 'ready must be dead,
For he said he see the bark fly all about his head.

Then we both started up, the truth to discover,
And may de Debil roast old Pompey Smash's liber,
If it wan't an old knot about as big as a barrel;
Says I, Carnal Davy, does you call dis a squirrel?
Says he, you brack calf,
You better not laff,
Or else I'll pin your ears back, and bite you in a half.

I throw down my gun, and I drop my ammunition,
Says I, Curnal Davy, I cool your ambition.
He back'd both his ears, and he pad'ld like a steamer;
Says he, Pompey Smash, I'm a Tennessee screamer.
Then we both lock'd horn,
And I think my breath gone,
I was neber hugg'd so close since de day I was born.

We fought a half day, and then greed to stop it,
For I was bad'y lick'd, and so was Davy Crocket.
When we look'd for our heads, gosh, we found 'em both missing,
For he had bit off mine, and I had swallow'd his'n.
Then we both did 'gree
For to let the other be,
For I was rather hard for him, and so was he for me.



Poor Old Maids

Threescore and ten of us,
Poor old maids!
Threescore and ten of us,
Not a soul to give a buss,
What will become of us?
Poor old maids!

Long time we've tarried,
Poor old maids!
Long time we've tarried,
Soon shall we be buried -
O that we were married!
Poor old maids!

All alone we go to bed,
Poor old maids!
All alone we go to bed,
Put our nightcaps on our head,
But not a word to us is said -
Poor old maids!

From The Singer's Companion, New York, 1857

According to the unnamed compiler of The Singer's Companion, "We have never seen this tune in print, and give it from the recollections of childhood... It is an old English air, at least as early as the days of George III." 

poor omie

Poor Rosey
Slave Song

Poor Rosey, poor gal;
Poor Rosey, poor gal.
Rosey break my poor heart,
Heav'n shall-a be my home

I can not stay in hell one day -
Heav'n shall-a be my home;
I'll sing and pray my soul away;
Heav'n shall-a be my home.

Got hard trial in my way,
Heav'n shall-a be my home;
O, when I talk, I talk wid God -

Heav'n shall-a be my home.

I doan know what de people want of me -
Heav'n shall-a be my home;
I doan know what de people want of me -
Heav'n shall-a be my home.

POOR ROSEY was well known during the war.  After visiting one of North Carolina's Outer Banks islands, occupied then by Federal soldiers, Lucy McKim mentioned POOR ROSEY in a letter:

"As the same songs are sung at every sort of work, of course the tempo was not always alike. On the water, the oars dip POOR ROSEY to an even andante; a stout boy and girl at the hominy-mill will make the same POOR ROSEY fly, to keep up with the whirling stone; and in the evening, after the day's work is done, "Heab'n shall-a be my home" peals up slowly and mournfully from the distant quarters.  One woman - a respectable house servant, who lost all but one of her twenty-two children - said to me:

"Pshaw!  Don't har to these chil'en, miss.  Dey jes rattles it off; dey don't know how for sing it.  I likes POOR ROSEY better dan all de songs, but it can't be sung widout a full heart and a troubled spirit!"


Matrimony is a nut
For every man's digestion;
When the shell is fairly cracked,
Pop! goes the question.

Pretty girls will sigh and blush,
Simper all they can, sir,
Till, from out their pouting lips,
Pop! goes the answer.

Cupid fans the holy flame -
Rankest kind of arson;
When it gains a certain height,

Pop! goes the Parson.

When a year has shown its tail
'Round the corner, may be,
Out upon the wicked world,
Pop! goes a baby.

All the sweets that Earth can yield,
Won't suffice to calm it!
Daddy screws his lips - and then,
Pop! goes a Damn it!

Madame lets her husband swear
She must be the whipper:
And about the youngster's heels,
Pop! goes the slipper..

Bachelor who lives next door,
Bears it for a season;
But before the year is out,
Pop! goes his reason.

Maiden lady, up the stairs,
Stamps each moment faster,
Till, from off the wall beneath,
Pop! goes the plaster.

Dirty, ragged little boy
Beneath the window lingers,
Thumb applied unto his nose -
Pop! goes the fingers.

All around the neighborhood,
Such antics are enacted;
And, while mamma is scolding him,
POP goes distracted!




No. 1
When de night walks in as black as a sheep,
And de hen and her eggs am fast asleep,
Den into her nest with a sarpent's creep -
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

Ob all de dance dat ebber was plann'd
To galvinize de heel and de hand,
Dar's none dat moves so gay and grand as -
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

De lover, when he pants t'rough fear
To pop de question to his dear,
He joins distance, den in her ear -
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

John Bull tells, in de ole cow's hum
How Uncle Sam used Uncle Tom,
While he makes some white folks slaves at home by -
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

He talks about a friendly trip
To Cuba in a steam warship,
But Uncle Sam may make him skip by
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

He's sending forth his iron hounds
To bark us off de fishin' grounds;
He'd best beware of Freedom's sounds ob
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

De Temperance folks from Souf to Maine,
Against all liquor spout and strain,
But when dey feels an ugly pain, den
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

All New York in rush now whirls whar
De World's Fair its flag unfurls;
But de best World's Fair am when our girls dance
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

Den form two lines as straight as a string,
Dance in and out, den three in a ring -
Dive under like de duck, and sing
"Pop goes de Weasel!"

No. 2

Oh, darkies, what a time I had
To the ball last Saturday ebening;
Balansaying to de crowd myself and Sally Teazle.

When de coach drove to de door,
Out stepped Miss Sally Teazle;
Says she to me, "What does dis mean? Singing,
' Pop Goes The Weazle'?"

Forward two, and balansay,
C cross hands wid Sally Teazle;
Oh, darkies, what a time I had, singing
"Pop Goes The Weazle."

We danced all night till broad daylight -
I neber shall forget it;
De whiskey got de best ob me,
Oh, how I do regret it!

De champagne got de best ob me;
I cannot tell de reason;
Miss Sally dear stood all alone singing,
"Pop Goes The Weazle."

A jealous thought come in my head,
And next I was for fighting;
De manager ob de ball, he said
De ladies were all frightened.

One darkey wid a white cravat
Kept Miss Sally Teazle;
And a gemmen wid a voice sung out,
"Pop goes the weazle!"

Sung nightly by Charley White, with shouts of applause, at his Opera House, 49 Bowery, N.Y

No. 3.
Queen Victoria is very sick;
Napoleon's got the measles;
Sebastopol's not taken yet;
"Pop goes the weazle!"

All round the cobbler's bench
The monkey chased the weazle;
The priest, he kissed the cobbler's wife -
Pop went the weazle!

A penny for a ball of thread,
A penny for a needle;
That's the way the money goes -
Pop goes the weazle!

My wife, she is awful sick;
The baby's got the measles,
Sally's got the whooping cough;
Pop goes the weazle!

Johnny Bull, he makes his brag:
He can whip the whole creation;
Why don't he take Sebastopol by
Pop goes the weazle?

Mayor Wood has put the rumsellers through,
The Maine Law's a sad evil;
We cannot get our toddy now;
Pop goes the weazle!



I've rambled this country both early and late;
Hard is my fortune and sad is my fate.
I came unto my love's door expecting to get in;
Instead of finding pleasure my troubles just begin

I stood there one hour as patient as Job,
Calling, "Pretty Polly, come open the door!"
I saw another man enjoy within my room;
I walked away by the light of the moon.

I took to my heels just as hard as I could go;
I rambled way down in a far shady grove,
And there I sat down with a bottle in my hand,
Drinking of brandy and thinking about that man.

So early next morning, Pretty Polly passed me by,
Her red rosey cheeks and her dark sparkling eyes;
Her eyes, they were so dark and her hair were of the same -
I knew within my heart - did you ever feel that pain?

I wish I were a fisherman on yon riverside;
Pretty Polly, my object, came floating down the tide.
I'd throw my net around her, I'd bring her to the shore;
I'd have Pretty Polly to weep for no more.

Green grows the laurel and also the yew;
Sugar is sweet but not like you,
And since it is no better, I'm glad it is no worse;
Brandy in my bottle and money in my purse.

the prisoner's hope

Protect My Boy!