There's one with
ringlets
of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
16396 (#96) ###########################################
16396
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
O
PADDY dear, and did you hear the news that's going round ?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen:
For there's a bloody law again' the wearing of the green.
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand ? »
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:
They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
Oh, if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:
I've heard a whisper of a country that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand ?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land ?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green.
Dion BOUCICAULT.
N"
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
ot a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
## p. 16397 (#97) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16397
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone -
But we left him alone with his glory.
CHARLES WOLFE.
ARNOLD WINKELRIED
“M
AKE way for liberty! » he cried;
Made way for liberty, and died !
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frame should wear;
A wood like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life:
## p. 16398 (#98) ###########################################
16398
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From Aank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows, to the sun.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their native land:
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained:
Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin:
Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed.
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet; —
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the homes of slaves ?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?
It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;
## p. 16399 (#99) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16399
All Switzerland is in the field:
She will not fly, she cannot yield –
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one, indeed :
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done;
The field was in a moment won;-
«Make way for Liberty! ” he cried:
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for Liberty! ” he cried :
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.
»
Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
« Make way for Liberty! ” they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart:
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;—
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for Liberty!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
## p. 16400 (#100) ##########################################
16400
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LITTLE BELL
P"
IPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray:
« Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
What's your name? ” quoth he-
«What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold. ” —
“Little Bell,” said she.
Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her glearning golden locks;
“Bonny bird,” quoth she,
“Sing me your best song before I go. ”
Here's the very finest song I know,
Little Bell,” said he.
And the blackbird piped: you never heard
Half
gay a song from any bird -
Full of quips and wiles;
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.
And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And from out the tree
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear,-
«Little Bell,” piped he.
(
Little Bell sat down amid the fern, -
«Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;
Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, -
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes,-.
And adown the tree,
## p. 16401 (#101) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16401
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one —
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell,” pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade:
«Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me! )
Down came squirrel eager for his fare,
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share -
Ah, the merry three!
And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow
From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:
Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.
«What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That with happy heart, beside her bed
Prays so lovingly ? )
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,
« Bell, dear Bell! » crooned he.
« Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair
Murmured, «God doth bless with angels' care:
Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm; Love, deep and kind,
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind,
Little Bell, for thee ! »
THOMAS WESTWOOD.
XXVIII-1026
## p. 16402 (#102) ##########################################
16402
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
AN EXPERIENCE AND A MORAL
LENT my love a book one day;
She brought it back; I laid it by:
'Twas little either had to say,–
She was so strange, and I so shy.
But yet we loved indifferent things, -
The sprouting buds, the birds in tune, –
And Time stood still and wreathed his wings
With rosy links from June to June.
For her, what task to dare or do ?
What peril tempt? what hardship bear?
But with her - ah! she never knew
My heart, and what was hidden there!
And she with me, so cold and coy,
Seemed like a maid bereft of sense ;
But in the crowd, all life and joy,
And full of blushful impudence.
She married, — well, a woman needs
A mate, her life and love to share,-
And little cares sprang up like weeds
And played around her elbow-chair.
And years rolled by — but I, content,
Trimmed my own lamp, and kept it bright,
Till age's touch my hair besprent
With rays and gleams of silver light.
And then it chanced I took the book
Which she perused in days gone by;
And as I read, such passion shook
My soul,- I needs must curse or cry.
For, here and there, her love was writ,
In old, half-faded pencil-signs,
As if she yielded — bit by bit -
Her heart in dots and underlines.
Ah, silvered fool, too late you look!
I know it; let me here record
This maxim: Lend no girl a book
Unless you read it afterward!
FREDERICK S. Cozzens.
## p. 16403 (#103) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16403
HOW PERSIMMONS TOOK CARE OB DER BABY
PER
ERSIMMONS was a colored lad
'Way down in Lou'siany,
And all the teaching that he had
Was given him by his granny.
But he did his duty ever
As well as you, it may be;
With faithfulness and pride always,
He minded missus's baby.
He loved the counsels of the saints, –
And sometimes those of sinners,
To run off 'possum-hunting and
Steal (watermilion ) dinners.
And fervently at meetin' too,
On every Sunday night,
He'd with the elders shout and pray
By the pine-knots' flaring light,
And sing their rudest melodies
With voice so full and strong
You could almost think he learned them
From the angels' triumph song.
SONG
( We be nearer to de Lord
Dan de white folks,- and dey knows it:
See de glory-gate unbarred;
Walk in darkies, past de guard —
Bet you dollar he won't close it.
« Walk in, darkies, troo de gate:
Hear de kullered angels holler;
Go 'way, white folks, you're too late,-
We's de winnin' kuller. Wait
Till de trumpet blow to foller. ”
He would croon this over softly
As he lay out in the sun;
But the song he heard most often
His granny's favorite one —
Was - Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! shut de do',
Get up off dat flo',
Come heah and mind de baby. ”
## p. 16404 (#104) ##########################################
16404
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
One night there came a fearful storm,-
Almost a second flood;
The river rose, a torrent swoln
Of beaten, yellow mud.
It bit at its embankments,
And lapped them down in foam,
Till surging through a wide crevasse,
The waves seethed round their home.
They scaled the high veranda,
They filled the parlors clear,
Till floating chairs and tables
Clashed against the chandelier.
'Twas then Persimmons's granny,
Stout of arm and terror-proof,
By means of axe and lever,
Pried up the veranda roof;
Bound mattresses upon it
With stoutest cords of rope,
Lifted out her fainting mistress,
Saying, “Honey, dar is hope!
«You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick on dat raf';
Don't star' like a calf,
But take good cah ob. baby! ”
The frothing river lifted them
Out on its turbid tide,
And for a while they floated on
Together, side by side;
Till, broken by the current strong,
The frail raft snapt in two,
And Persimmons saw his granny
Fast fading from his view.
The deck-hands on a steamboat
Heard, as they passed in haste,
A child's voice singing in the dark,
Upon the water's waste,
A song of faith and triumph,
Of Moses and the Lord;
And throwing out a coil of rope,
They drew him safe on board.
Full many a stranger city
Persimmons wandered through,
## p. 16405 (#105) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16405
"A-totin' ob der baby,” and
Singing songs he knew.
At length some City Fathers
Objected to his plan,
Arresting as a vagrant
Our valiant little man.
They carried out their purposes,
Persimmons « 'lowed he'd spile 'em,"
So, sloping from the station-house,
He stole baby from the 'sylum.
And on that very afternoon,
As it was growing dark,
He sang, beside the fountain in
The crowded city park,
A rude camp-meeting anthem,
Which he had sung before,
While on his granny's fragile raft
He drifted far from shore:-
.
SONG
«Moses smote de water, and
De sea gabe away;
De chillen dey passed ober, for
De sea gabe away.
O Lord! I feel so glad,
It am always dark 'fo' day;
So, honey, don't yer be sad,
De sea 'll gib away. ”
A lady dressed in mourning
Turned with a sudden start,
Gave one glance at the baby,
Then caught it to her heart;
While a substantial shadow
That was walking by her side
Seized Persimmons by the shoulder,
And while she shook him, cried:-
« You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! splain yerself, chile,-
Stop dat ar fool smile,-
Whar you done been wid baby? ”
(
ELIZABETH W. CH
MPNEY.
## p. 16406 (#106) ##########################################
16406
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHILST THEE I SEEK
W
Hilst thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled!
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.
Thy love the power of thought bestowed;
To thee my thoughts would soar:
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed;
That mercy I adore.
In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul more dear,
Because conferred by thee.
In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,
My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.
When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill;
Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,
My soul shall meet thy will.
My lifted eye without a tear
The gathering storms shall see:
My steadfast heart shall know no fear;
That heart shall rest on thee.
HELEN M. WILLIAMS.
SHIPS AT SEA
I
HAVE ships that went to sea
More than fifty years ago :
None have yet come home to me,
But keep sailing to and fro.
I have seen them in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around thein screamed the gulls,
Flying low, flying low.
## p. 16407 (#107) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16407
I have wondered where they stayed
From me, sailing round the world;
And I've said, “I'm half afraid
That their sails will ne'er be furled. ”
Great the treasures that they hold, -
Silks and plumes, and bars of gold;
While the spices which they bear
Fill with fragrance all the air,
As they sail, as they sail.
Every sailor in the port
Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the waves and winds the sport;
And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And contented watch the tide
Rise and fall, rise and fall,
I have waited on the piers,
Gazing from them down the bay,
Days and nights for many years,
Till I turned heart-sick away.
But the pilots when they land
Stop and take me by the hand,
Saying, “You will live to see
Your proud vessels come from sea,
One and all, one and all. "
So I never quite despair,
Nor let hope or courage fail;
And some day when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ship will sail.
I can buy then all I need,-
Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Everything except a heart:
That is lost, that is lost.
Once when I was pure and young,
Poorer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,
Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine; -
## p. 16408 (#108) ##########################################
16408
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me,
Evermore, evermore.
R. B. COFFIN.
HOME, SWEET HOME
'M
ID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home; there's no place like home.
An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain,
Oh! give me my lowly, thatch'd cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call;
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, there's no place like home.
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,
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
But give me, oh! give me the pleasures of home.
To thee I'll return, over-burdened with care,
The heart's 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! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, there's no place like home.
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE
A
LIFE on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep;
Where the scattered waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep!
Like an eagle caged I pine
On this dull, unchanging shore:
## p. 16409 (#109) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16409
Oh, give me the flashing brine,
The spray and the tempest's roar!
Once more on the deck I stand,
Of my own swift-gliding craft:
Set sail! farewell to land!
The gale follows fair abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling foam,
Like an ocean-bird set free,
Like the ocean bird, our home
We'll find far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;
But with a stout vessel and crew,
We'll say, Let the storm come down!
And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the winds and the waters rave,
A home on the rolling sea!
A life on the ocean wave!
EPES SARGENT.
THE WANDERER
H
E KNOWS no home; he only knows
Hunger and cold and pain.
The four winds are his bedfellows;
His sleep is dashed with rain.
'Tis naught to him who fails, who thrives:
He neither hopes nor fears;
Some dim primeval impulse drives
His footsteps down the years.
He could not, if he would, forsake
Lone road and field and tree.
Yet, think! it takes a God to make
E'en such a waif as he.
And once a maiden, asked for bread,
Saw, as she gave her dole,
No friendless vagrant, but, instead,
An indefeasible Soul.
WILLIAM CANTON.
## p. 16410 (#110) ##########################################
16410
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
HESPERUS SINGS
Pºor
Oor old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech-owl's cry
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant gray hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined:
And his cry it was ever, Alack !
Alack, and woe is me!
Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears;
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes:
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize;
Or your cry shall be ever, Alack!
Alack, and woe is me!
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
THE OATEN PIPE
W*
HEN the musical piping frogs
Begin to croak and chant
In the marshes, and in the bogs,
In many a sweet spring haunt,
I think of the legend hoary
Which little Dutch folk recite,-
How the nightingale's soul, says the story,
Enters a frog in its flight.
And so, when I hear the weird catch
Where the frogs alone take part,
I fancy I sometimes snatch
A strain from the nightingale's heart.
MARY NEWMARCH PRESCOTT.
## p. 16411 (#111) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16411
OVER THE RIVER
09
VER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, -
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale:
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,
And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea:
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar:
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
## p. 16412 (#112) ##########################################
16412
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me!
NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.
OUR MOTHER
B;
ROKEN and worn. For years we saw her so;
Dropping from strength, from time detaching slow;
And scarcely could we know
How earth's dark ebb was heaven's bright overflow.
« She is so old,” we said. The cloud and pain
Half hid her, till we sought with loving strain
Her very self in vain.
Her very self was growing young again!
She has come back! The cloud and pain are o'er;
The dear freed feet but touched that other shore
To turn to us once more
The nearer, like her lord who went before.
Our young, strong, angel mother!
From the years
Triumphant life its shining garment clears,
And all its stain of tears
And weariness forever disappears.
Old — broken — weak? 'Twas but the shattering might
With which a grand soul broke toward the light;
Rending its bands of night
That it might stand full-statured in God's sight.
The calyx burst that it might loose the flower;
We saw the mist but by the sunbeam's power;
The dusk that seemed to lower
Was of the morning — not the midnight hour.
And so a birth, not death, we stand beside;
Our own fast-gathering years come glorified;
And braver we abide
That we have seen heaven's great door flung awide.
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.
## p. 16413 (#113) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16413
BEN BOLT
Dº
On't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.
Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill.
The mill-wheei has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze
Has followed the olden din.
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the doorstep stood ?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt;
The tree you would seek for in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Are grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook
Where the children went to swim ?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then
There are only you and I.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends; yet I hail
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale!
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
## p. 16414 (#114) ##########################################
16414
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET
Hº
ow dear to this heart are the scenes of iny childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, -
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
SAMUEL WoodWORTH.
THE BRAVE OLD OAK
A
SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
## p. 16415 (#115) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16415
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!
In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.
And on that day to the rebeck gay
They frolicked with lovesome swains:
They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid,
But the tree it still remains.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear,
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!
Wºº
TOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea -
And wouldst thou hew it down?
## p. 16416 (#116) ##########################################
16416
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand, -
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR
1
LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart:
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? - a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
## p. 16417 (#117) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16417
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks grew gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped:
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past; but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
ELIZA COOK.
SONG OF STEAM
H^
ARNESS me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight
For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel,
With the toil that he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;
When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love;
XXVIII-1027
## p. 16418 (#118) ##########################################
16418
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I could but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripped afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chained to the flying car!
Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length:
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,
And laughed in my iron strength:
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.
Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er,
The mountain's steep decline;
Time, space, have yielded to my power,
The world - the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly West,
Or the Orient floods divine.
The Ocean pales wherever I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice;
And monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling, at my voice.
I carry the wealth of the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The wind lags after my going forth,
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks ne'er saw the sun's decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day;
I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden caves below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made;
## p. 16419 (#119) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16419
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry,
I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put in print
On every Saturday eve.
I've no muscles to weary, no brains to decay,
No bones to be “laid on the shelf));
And soon I intend you may go and play,”
While I manage the world myself.
But harness me down with your iron ands;
Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.
GEORGE W. CUTTER.
TUBAL CAIN
O"
LD Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang,
«Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and the sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they said, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true! ”
## p. 16420 (#120) ##########################################
16420
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men with rage and hate
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, "Alas that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man! »
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite, the ore,
And his furnace smoldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he sang,
“Hurrah for my handiwork! ”
And the red sparks lit the air :
“Not alone for the blade was the bright steel
made,"
And he fashioned the first plowshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands;
And sung, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plow,
We'll not forget the sword! ”
CHARLES MACKAY,
## p. 16421 (#121) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16421
DIFFERENCES
TH
He king can drink the best of wine -
So can I;
And has enough when he would dine --
So have I;
And cannot order rain or shine -
Nor can I.
Then where's the difference - let me see
Betwixt my lord the king and me ?
Do trusty friends surround his throne
Night and day?
Or make his interest their own ?
No, not they.
Mine love me for myself alone -
Blessed be they!
And that's the difference which I see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
Do knaves around me lie in wait
To deceive ?
Or fawn and flatter when they hate,
And would grieve ?
Or cruel pomps oppress my state
By my leave?
No, Heaven be thanked! And here you see
More difference 'twixt the king and me.
He has his fools, with jests and quips,
When he'd play;
He has his armies and his ships —
Great are they;
But not a child to kiss his lips —
Well-a-day!
And that's a difference sad to see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
I wear the cap and he the crown
What of that ?
I sleep on straw and he on down-
What of that?
And he's the king and I'm the clown --
What of that?
If happy I, and wretched he,
Perhaps the king would change with me.
CHARLES MACKAY.
## p. 16422 (#122) ##########################################
16422
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
COM
STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY
OME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
We see him now- the queer slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The Blue-Light Elder » knows 'em well:
Says he, “That's Banks — he's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we'll give him — » Well!
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
old Blue Light's goin' to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God:
“Lay bare thine arm; stretch forth thy rod!
Amen! ) That's Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn ?
What matter if our feet are torn ?
“Quick step! we're with him before morn! »
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
(
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
“Bay'nets and grape! ” hear Stonewall roar;
Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score !
In «Stonewall Jackson's way. "
(
## p. 16423 (#123) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16423
Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in “Stonewall's way. ”
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
THE CAUSE OF THE SOUTH
THE
He fallen cause still waits,-
Its bard has not come yet;
His song through one of to-morrow's gates
Shall shine, but never set.
But when he comes, he'll sweep
A harp with tears all stringed;
And the very notes he strikes will weep
As they come from his hand, woe-winged.
Ah! grand shall be his strain,
And his songs shall fill all climes;
And the Rebels shall rise and march again
Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.
And through his verse shall gleam
The swords that flashed in vain;
And the men who wore the gray shall seem
To be marshaling again.
But hush! between his words
Peer faces sad and pale,
And you hear the sound of broken chords
Beat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry —
The terrible undertone!
And the father's curse and the mother's sigh,
And the desolate young wife's moan.
I sing, with a voice too low
To be heard beyond to-day,
In minor keys of my people's woe;
And my songs will pass away.
16396
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
O
PADDY dear, and did you hear the news that's going round ?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen:
For there's a bloody law again' the wearing of the green.
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand ? »
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:
They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
Oh, if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:
I've heard a whisper of a country that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand ?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land ?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green.
Dion BOUCICAULT.
N"
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
ot a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
## p. 16397 (#97) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16397
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone -
But we left him alone with his glory.
CHARLES WOLFE.
ARNOLD WINKELRIED
“M
AKE way for liberty! » he cried;
Made way for liberty, and died !
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frame should wear;
A wood like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life:
## p. 16398 (#98) ###########################################
16398
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From Aank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows, to the sun.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their native land:
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained:
Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin:
Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed.
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet; —
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the homes of slaves ?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?
It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;
## p. 16399 (#99) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16399
All Switzerland is in the field:
She will not fly, she cannot yield –
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one, indeed :
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done;
The field was in a moment won;-
«Make way for Liberty! ” he cried:
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for Liberty! ” he cried :
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.
»
Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
« Make way for Liberty! ” they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart:
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;—
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for Liberty!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
## p. 16400 (#100) ##########################################
16400
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LITTLE BELL
P"
IPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray:
« Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
What's your name? ” quoth he-
«What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold. ” —
“Little Bell,” said she.
Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her glearning golden locks;
“Bonny bird,” quoth she,
“Sing me your best song before I go. ”
Here's the very finest song I know,
Little Bell,” said he.
And the blackbird piped: you never heard
Half
gay a song from any bird -
Full of quips and wiles;
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.
And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And from out the tree
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear,-
«Little Bell,” piped he.
(
Little Bell sat down amid the fern, -
«Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;
Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, -
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes,-.
And adown the tree,
## p. 16401 (#101) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16401
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one —
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell,” pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade:
«Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me! )
Down came squirrel eager for his fare,
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share -
Ah, the merry three!
And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow
From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:
Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.
«What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That with happy heart, beside her bed
Prays so lovingly ? )
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,
« Bell, dear Bell! » crooned he.
« Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair
Murmured, «God doth bless with angels' care:
Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm; Love, deep and kind,
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind,
Little Bell, for thee ! »
THOMAS WESTWOOD.
XXVIII-1026
## p. 16402 (#102) ##########################################
16402
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
AN EXPERIENCE AND A MORAL
LENT my love a book one day;
She brought it back; I laid it by:
'Twas little either had to say,–
She was so strange, and I so shy.
But yet we loved indifferent things, -
The sprouting buds, the birds in tune, –
And Time stood still and wreathed his wings
With rosy links from June to June.
For her, what task to dare or do ?
What peril tempt? what hardship bear?
But with her - ah! she never knew
My heart, and what was hidden there!
And she with me, so cold and coy,
Seemed like a maid bereft of sense ;
But in the crowd, all life and joy,
And full of blushful impudence.
She married, — well, a woman needs
A mate, her life and love to share,-
And little cares sprang up like weeds
And played around her elbow-chair.
And years rolled by — but I, content,
Trimmed my own lamp, and kept it bright,
Till age's touch my hair besprent
With rays and gleams of silver light.
And then it chanced I took the book
Which she perused in days gone by;
And as I read, such passion shook
My soul,- I needs must curse or cry.
For, here and there, her love was writ,
In old, half-faded pencil-signs,
As if she yielded — bit by bit -
Her heart in dots and underlines.
Ah, silvered fool, too late you look!
I know it; let me here record
This maxim: Lend no girl a book
Unless you read it afterward!
FREDERICK S. Cozzens.
## p. 16403 (#103) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16403
HOW PERSIMMONS TOOK CARE OB DER BABY
PER
ERSIMMONS was a colored lad
'Way down in Lou'siany,
And all the teaching that he had
Was given him by his granny.
But he did his duty ever
As well as you, it may be;
With faithfulness and pride always,
He minded missus's baby.
He loved the counsels of the saints, –
And sometimes those of sinners,
To run off 'possum-hunting and
Steal (watermilion ) dinners.
And fervently at meetin' too,
On every Sunday night,
He'd with the elders shout and pray
By the pine-knots' flaring light,
And sing their rudest melodies
With voice so full and strong
You could almost think he learned them
From the angels' triumph song.
SONG
( We be nearer to de Lord
Dan de white folks,- and dey knows it:
See de glory-gate unbarred;
Walk in darkies, past de guard —
Bet you dollar he won't close it.
« Walk in, darkies, troo de gate:
Hear de kullered angels holler;
Go 'way, white folks, you're too late,-
We's de winnin' kuller. Wait
Till de trumpet blow to foller. ”
He would croon this over softly
As he lay out in the sun;
But the song he heard most often
His granny's favorite one —
Was - Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! shut de do',
Get up off dat flo',
Come heah and mind de baby. ”
## p. 16404 (#104) ##########################################
16404
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
One night there came a fearful storm,-
Almost a second flood;
The river rose, a torrent swoln
Of beaten, yellow mud.
It bit at its embankments,
And lapped them down in foam,
Till surging through a wide crevasse,
The waves seethed round their home.
They scaled the high veranda,
They filled the parlors clear,
Till floating chairs and tables
Clashed against the chandelier.
'Twas then Persimmons's granny,
Stout of arm and terror-proof,
By means of axe and lever,
Pried up the veranda roof;
Bound mattresses upon it
With stoutest cords of rope,
Lifted out her fainting mistress,
Saying, “Honey, dar is hope!
«You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick on dat raf';
Don't star' like a calf,
But take good cah ob. baby! ”
The frothing river lifted them
Out on its turbid tide,
And for a while they floated on
Together, side by side;
Till, broken by the current strong,
The frail raft snapt in two,
And Persimmons saw his granny
Fast fading from his view.
The deck-hands on a steamboat
Heard, as they passed in haste,
A child's voice singing in the dark,
Upon the water's waste,
A song of faith and triumph,
Of Moses and the Lord;
And throwing out a coil of rope,
They drew him safe on board.
Full many a stranger city
Persimmons wandered through,
## p. 16405 (#105) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16405
"A-totin' ob der baby,” and
Singing songs he knew.
At length some City Fathers
Objected to his plan,
Arresting as a vagrant
Our valiant little man.
They carried out their purposes,
Persimmons « 'lowed he'd spile 'em,"
So, sloping from the station-house,
He stole baby from the 'sylum.
And on that very afternoon,
As it was growing dark,
He sang, beside the fountain in
The crowded city park,
A rude camp-meeting anthem,
Which he had sung before,
While on his granny's fragile raft
He drifted far from shore:-
.
SONG
«Moses smote de water, and
De sea gabe away;
De chillen dey passed ober, for
De sea gabe away.
O Lord! I feel so glad,
It am always dark 'fo' day;
So, honey, don't yer be sad,
De sea 'll gib away. ”
A lady dressed in mourning
Turned with a sudden start,
Gave one glance at the baby,
Then caught it to her heart;
While a substantial shadow
That was walking by her side
Seized Persimmons by the shoulder,
And while she shook him, cried:-
« You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! splain yerself, chile,-
Stop dat ar fool smile,-
Whar you done been wid baby? ”
(
ELIZABETH W. CH
MPNEY.
## p. 16406 (#106) ##########################################
16406
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHILST THEE I SEEK
W
Hilst thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled!
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.
Thy love the power of thought bestowed;
To thee my thoughts would soar:
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed;
That mercy I adore.
In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul more dear,
Because conferred by thee.
In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,
My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.
When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill;
Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,
My soul shall meet thy will.
My lifted eye without a tear
The gathering storms shall see:
My steadfast heart shall know no fear;
That heart shall rest on thee.
HELEN M. WILLIAMS.
SHIPS AT SEA
I
HAVE ships that went to sea
More than fifty years ago :
None have yet come home to me,
But keep sailing to and fro.
I have seen them in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around thein screamed the gulls,
Flying low, flying low.
## p. 16407 (#107) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16407
I have wondered where they stayed
From me, sailing round the world;
And I've said, “I'm half afraid
That their sails will ne'er be furled. ”
Great the treasures that they hold, -
Silks and plumes, and bars of gold;
While the spices which they bear
Fill with fragrance all the air,
As they sail, as they sail.
Every sailor in the port
Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the waves and winds the sport;
And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And contented watch the tide
Rise and fall, rise and fall,
I have waited on the piers,
Gazing from them down the bay,
Days and nights for many years,
Till I turned heart-sick away.
But the pilots when they land
Stop and take me by the hand,
Saying, “You will live to see
Your proud vessels come from sea,
One and all, one and all. "
So I never quite despair,
Nor let hope or courage fail;
And some day when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ship will sail.
I can buy then all I need,-
Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Everything except a heart:
That is lost, that is lost.
Once when I was pure and young,
Poorer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,
Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine; -
## p. 16408 (#108) ##########################################
16408
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me,
Evermore, evermore.
R. B. COFFIN.
HOME, SWEET HOME
'M
ID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home; there's no place like home.
An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain,
Oh! give me my lowly, thatch'd cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call;
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, there's no place like home.
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,
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
But give me, oh! give me the pleasures of home.
To thee I'll return, over-burdened with care,
The heart's 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! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, there's no place like home.
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE
A
LIFE on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep;
Where the scattered waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep!
Like an eagle caged I pine
On this dull, unchanging shore:
## p. 16409 (#109) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16409
Oh, give me the flashing brine,
The spray and the tempest's roar!
Once more on the deck I stand,
Of my own swift-gliding craft:
Set sail! farewell to land!
The gale follows fair abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling foam,
Like an ocean-bird set free,
Like the ocean bird, our home
We'll find far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;
But with a stout vessel and crew,
We'll say, Let the storm come down!
And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the winds and the waters rave,
A home on the rolling sea!
A life on the ocean wave!
EPES SARGENT.
THE WANDERER
H
E KNOWS no home; he only knows
Hunger and cold and pain.
The four winds are his bedfellows;
His sleep is dashed with rain.
'Tis naught to him who fails, who thrives:
He neither hopes nor fears;
Some dim primeval impulse drives
His footsteps down the years.
He could not, if he would, forsake
Lone road and field and tree.
Yet, think! it takes a God to make
E'en such a waif as he.
And once a maiden, asked for bread,
Saw, as she gave her dole,
No friendless vagrant, but, instead,
An indefeasible Soul.
WILLIAM CANTON.
## p. 16410 (#110) ##########################################
16410
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
HESPERUS SINGS
Pºor
Oor old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech-owl's cry
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant gray hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined:
And his cry it was ever, Alack !
Alack, and woe is me!
Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears;
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes:
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize;
Or your cry shall be ever, Alack!
Alack, and woe is me!
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
THE OATEN PIPE
W*
HEN the musical piping frogs
Begin to croak and chant
In the marshes, and in the bogs,
In many a sweet spring haunt,
I think of the legend hoary
Which little Dutch folk recite,-
How the nightingale's soul, says the story,
Enters a frog in its flight.
And so, when I hear the weird catch
Where the frogs alone take part,
I fancy I sometimes snatch
A strain from the nightingale's heart.
MARY NEWMARCH PRESCOTT.
## p. 16411 (#111) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16411
OVER THE RIVER
09
VER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, -
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale:
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,
And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea:
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar:
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
## p. 16412 (#112) ##########################################
16412
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me!
NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.
OUR MOTHER
B;
ROKEN and worn. For years we saw her so;
Dropping from strength, from time detaching slow;
And scarcely could we know
How earth's dark ebb was heaven's bright overflow.
« She is so old,” we said. The cloud and pain
Half hid her, till we sought with loving strain
Her very self in vain.
Her very self was growing young again!
She has come back! The cloud and pain are o'er;
The dear freed feet but touched that other shore
To turn to us once more
The nearer, like her lord who went before.
Our young, strong, angel mother!
From the years
Triumphant life its shining garment clears,
And all its stain of tears
And weariness forever disappears.
Old — broken — weak? 'Twas but the shattering might
With which a grand soul broke toward the light;
Rending its bands of night
That it might stand full-statured in God's sight.
The calyx burst that it might loose the flower;
We saw the mist but by the sunbeam's power;
The dusk that seemed to lower
Was of the morning — not the midnight hour.
And so a birth, not death, we stand beside;
Our own fast-gathering years come glorified;
And braver we abide
That we have seen heaven's great door flung awide.
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.
## p. 16413 (#113) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16413
BEN BOLT
Dº
On't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.
Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill.
The mill-wheei has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze
Has followed the olden din.
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the doorstep stood ?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt;
The tree you would seek for in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Are grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook
Where the children went to swim ?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then
There are only you and I.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends; yet I hail
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale!
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
## p. 16414 (#114) ##########################################
16414
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET
Hº
ow dear to this heart are the scenes of iny childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, -
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
SAMUEL WoodWORTH.
THE BRAVE OLD OAK
A
SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
## p. 16415 (#115) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16415
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!
In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.
And on that day to the rebeck gay
They frolicked with lovesome swains:
They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid,
But the tree it still remains.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear,
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!
Wºº
TOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea -
And wouldst thou hew it down?
## p. 16416 (#116) ##########################################
16416
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand, -
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR
1
LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart:
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? - a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
## p. 16417 (#117) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16417
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks grew gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped:
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past; but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
ELIZA COOK.
SONG OF STEAM
H^
ARNESS me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight
For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel,
With the toil that he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;
When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love;
XXVIII-1027
## p. 16418 (#118) ##########################################
16418
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I could but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripped afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chained to the flying car!
Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length:
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,
And laughed in my iron strength:
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.
Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er,
The mountain's steep decline;
Time, space, have yielded to my power,
The world - the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly West,
Or the Orient floods divine.
The Ocean pales wherever I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice;
And monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling, at my voice.
I carry the wealth of the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The wind lags after my going forth,
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks ne'er saw the sun's decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day;
I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden caves below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made;
## p. 16419 (#119) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16419
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry,
I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put in print
On every Saturday eve.
I've no muscles to weary, no brains to decay,
No bones to be “laid on the shelf));
And soon I intend you may go and play,”
While I manage the world myself.
But harness me down with your iron ands;
Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.
GEORGE W. CUTTER.
TUBAL CAIN
O"
LD Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang,
«Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and the sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they said, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true! ”
## p. 16420 (#120) ##########################################
16420
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men with rage and hate
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, "Alas that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man! »
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite, the ore,
And his furnace smoldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he sang,
“Hurrah for my handiwork! ”
And the red sparks lit the air :
“Not alone for the blade was the bright steel
made,"
And he fashioned the first plowshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands;
And sung, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plow,
We'll not forget the sword! ”
CHARLES MACKAY,
## p. 16421 (#121) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16421
DIFFERENCES
TH
He king can drink the best of wine -
So can I;
And has enough when he would dine --
So have I;
And cannot order rain or shine -
Nor can I.
Then where's the difference - let me see
Betwixt my lord the king and me ?
Do trusty friends surround his throne
Night and day?
Or make his interest their own ?
No, not they.
Mine love me for myself alone -
Blessed be they!
And that's the difference which I see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
Do knaves around me lie in wait
To deceive ?
Or fawn and flatter when they hate,
And would grieve ?
Or cruel pomps oppress my state
By my leave?
No, Heaven be thanked! And here you see
More difference 'twixt the king and me.
He has his fools, with jests and quips,
When he'd play;
He has his armies and his ships —
Great are they;
But not a child to kiss his lips —
Well-a-day!
And that's a difference sad to see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
I wear the cap and he the crown
What of that ?
I sleep on straw and he on down-
What of that?
And he's the king and I'm the clown --
What of that?
If happy I, and wretched he,
Perhaps the king would change with me.
CHARLES MACKAY.
## p. 16422 (#122) ##########################################
16422
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
COM
STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY
OME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
We see him now- the queer slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The Blue-Light Elder » knows 'em well:
Says he, “That's Banks — he's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we'll give him — » Well!
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
old Blue Light's goin' to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God:
“Lay bare thine arm; stretch forth thy rod!
Amen! ) That's Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn ?
What matter if our feet are torn ?
“Quick step! we're with him before morn! »
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
(
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
“Bay'nets and grape! ” hear Stonewall roar;
Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score !
In «Stonewall Jackson's way. "
(
## p. 16423 (#123) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16423
Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in “Stonewall's way. ”
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
THE CAUSE OF THE SOUTH
THE
He fallen cause still waits,-
Its bard has not come yet;
His song through one of to-morrow's gates
Shall shine, but never set.
But when he comes, he'll sweep
A harp with tears all stringed;
And the very notes he strikes will weep
As they come from his hand, woe-winged.
Ah! grand shall be his strain,
And his songs shall fill all climes;
And the Rebels shall rise and march again
Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.
And through his verse shall gleam
The swords that flashed in vain;
And the men who wore the gray shall seem
To be marshaling again.
But hush! between his words
Peer faces sad and pale,
And you hear the sound of broken chords
Beat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry —
The terrible undertone!
And the father's curse and the mother's sigh,
And the desolate young wife's moan.
I sing, with a voice too low
To be heard beyond to-day,
In minor keys of my people's woe;
And my songs will pass away.
