Sparking Sunday Night.

Sparking Sunday Night.Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!CHORUS.Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Sparking Sunday night?How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;Bless me,DON’Twe do it—sparking Sunday night?One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go hasCOME.You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”And wonder ifITever—sparked on Sunday night!One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,Don’t you wishEACH DAYwas only Sunday night?Answer of Katy Darling.Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,There my smiles you may ever more behold.I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.Or that your love had ever grown cold.Oh no, I could not believeThat my Dermot was untrue.No love was like the love of Katy Darling,Search the world you will find very few.I’m ever near you, dearest.When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy DarlingIs watching by her dear Dermot’s side,Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,Her spirit will ever be your guide.When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,This bright world is free from all care.By my grave I see you weepingIn the silent starry light,I long to have you with your Katy Darling,Happy you’d be with her this night.I hear you dear Dermot.And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,She will meet you till you lie by her side,Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.Sprig of Shillelah.Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,No malice or hatred is there to be found;He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fightsFor love—all for love—for in that he delights,With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?An Irishman all in his glory is there,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.At evening returning, as homeward he goes,His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twineRound a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”The Low Back’d Car.When first I saw sweet Peggy,’Twas on a market day;A Low Back’d Car she drove, and satUpon a truss of hay.But when that hay was blooming grass,And deck’d with flowers of spring,No flowers were there that could compareWith the lovely girl I sing,As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.In battle’s wild commotion,The proud and mighty Mars,With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,Of death in warlike scars;But Peggy, peaceful goddess,Has darts in her bright eye,That knock men down in the market-town,As right and left they fly;As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heartThat is hit from the Low Back’d Car.Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,Has strings of ducks and geese;But the scores of hearts she slaughters,By far outnumber these.While she among her poultry sits,Just like a turtle-dove,Well worth the cage, I do engage,Of the blooming God of Love.As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.I’d rather own that car, sir,With Peggy by my side,Than a coach and four, and gold galore,With a lady for my bride.For the lady would sit forninst me,On a cushion made with taste,While Peggy would sit beside me,With my arm around her waist.As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.Poor Old Maids.Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,What will become of us, poor old maids?Fourscore and four of us,Without a penny in our purse,What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,Nursing cats is all we do,Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed,And not a word to us is said,And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind,If the men would be so kind,As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room,I hope they’ll marry very soon,And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.O God! Preserve the Mariner.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.O God! preserve the mariner,When o’er the troubled deepThe rolling thunder-lightning flash,And howling tempests sweep;When like a reed the tall mast shakes,And human art is vain,O God! restore the marinerTo home, dear home again.The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,But dreams disturb her sleep,She starts to hear the hollow wind,And turns aside to weep;She clasps her baby, and she prays,Through tears, like falling rain,“O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.”The widow for her darling child,Her bosom’s only joy,Invokes the Power that rules the storm,For blessings on her boy.When ruin lurketh in the cloud,And death sweeps o’er the main,O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.A Merry Gipsy Girl again.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.A merry Gipsy girl again,I’m free to rove at will:The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,The valley and the hillHow poor the proudest roof ye boastTo that high-arched dome,Whose boundless circle makes me thinkThe whole wide world my home.Here none can bar the free fresh air,Nor mete out heaven’s light,Nor make the glorious day appearToo near akin to night.Amid the beauties of the meadMy summer days are spent,And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent;And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent.I wander freely as the fawnWhich hath not learnt to fearThe death-cry of the hunter’s voiceResounding far and near;And bounding through the woodsI feel as if I too could soar,Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,And sing for evermore!Come out, ye pent-up toilers!Come, from city dark and drear,And see what gladness Nature hasIn all her beauties here;And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,Your time has well been spent,And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent;And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent.Let Me Kiss Him for His Mother.Let me kiss him for his mother,Let me kiss his youthful brow;I will love him for his mother,And seek her blessing now.Kind friends have soothed his pillow,Have watch’d his every care;Beneath the weeping willow,Oh, lay him gently there.CHORUS.Sleep, dearest, sleep;I love you as a brother;Kind friends around you weep,I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,Let me kiss him for his mother,What though left a stranger here?She has loved him as none other,I feel her blessing near.Though cold that form lies sleeping,Sweet angels watch around;Dear friends are near thee weeping;Oh, lay him gently down.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.Let me kiss him for his mother,Or perchance a sister dear;If a father or a brother,I know their blessing’s here.Then kiss him for his mother:’Twill soothe her after-years;Farewell, dear stranger brother,Our requiem, our tears.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.My ain Fireside.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as,’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws,At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been,Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een,CHORUS.But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.The Indian Warrior’s Grave.Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiverWhere in his pride he roved in his childhoodFought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;Where the pale foe and he struggled together,Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.Indian Hunter.Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breezeBear riches for him alone—And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,Which the white man calls his own.Yha, yha!Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!Yha, yha, yha!The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.Yha, yha!Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.Yha, yha, yha!

Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!CHORUS.Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Sparking Sunday night?How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;Bless me,DON’Twe do it—sparking Sunday night?One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go hasCOME.You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”And wonder ifITever—sparked on Sunday night!One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,Don’t you wishEACH DAYwas only Sunday night?

Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!

Sitting in a corner, on a Sunday eve,

With a taper finger resting on your sleeve;

Starlight eyes are casting on your face their light;

Bless me, this is pleasant—sparking Sunday night!

CHORUS.

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,Sparking Sunday night?How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;Bless me,DON’Twe do it—sparking Sunday night?One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go hasCOME.You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”And wonder ifITever—sparked on Sunday night!One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,Don’t you wishEACH DAYwas only Sunday night?

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,

Sparking Sunday night?

How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?

How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,

How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!

Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,

Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?

Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;Bless me,DON’Twe do it—sparking Sunday night?

Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,

Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.

“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;

Bless me,DON’Twe do it—sparking Sunday night?

One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?

One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,

You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,

She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;

Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?

But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go hasCOME.You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”And wonder ifITever—sparked on Sunday night!

But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,

As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go hasCOME.

You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”

And wonder ifITever—sparked on Sunday night!

One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,Don’t you wishEACH DAYwas only Sunday night?

One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;

But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;

Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,

Don’t you wishEACH DAYwas only Sunday night?

Answer of Katy Darling.Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,There my smiles you may ever more behold.I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.Or that your love had ever grown cold.Oh no, I could not believeThat my Dermot was untrue.No love was like the love of Katy Darling,Search the world you will find very few.I’m ever near you, dearest.When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy DarlingIs watching by her dear Dermot’s side,Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,Her spirit will ever be your guide.When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,This bright world is free from all care.By my grave I see you weepingIn the silent starry light,I long to have you with your Katy Darling,Happy you’d be with her this night.I hear you dear Dermot.And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,She will meet you till you lie by her side,Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.

Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,There my smiles you may ever more behold.I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.Or that your love had ever grown cold.Oh no, I could not believeThat my Dermot was untrue.No love was like the love of Katy Darling,Search the world you will find very few.I’m ever near you, dearest.When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy DarlingIs watching by her dear Dermot’s side,Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,Her spirit will ever be your guide.When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,This bright world is free from all care.By my grave I see you weepingIn the silent starry light,I long to have you with your Katy Darling,Happy you’d be with her this night.I hear you dear Dermot.And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,She will meet you till you lie by her side,Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.

Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,

There my smiles you may ever more behold.

I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.

Or that your love had ever grown cold.

Oh no, I could not believe

That my Dermot was untrue.

No love was like the love of Katy Darling,

Search the world you will find very few.

I’m ever near you, dearest.

When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy Darling

Is watching by her dear Dermot’s side,

Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,

Her spirit will ever be your guide.

When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,This bright world is free from all care.By my grave I see you weepingIn the silent starry light,I long to have you with your Katy Darling,Happy you’d be with her this night.I hear you dear Dermot.And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,She will meet you till you lie by her side,Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.

When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,

Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,

Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,

This bright world is free from all care.

By my grave I see you weeping

In the silent starry light,

I long to have you with your Katy Darling,

Happy you’d be with her this night.

I hear you dear Dermot.

And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,

She will meet you till you lie by her side,

Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,

Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.

Sprig of Shillelah.Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,No malice or hatred is there to be found;He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fightsFor love—all for love—for in that he delights,With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?An Irishman all in his glory is there,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.At evening returning, as homeward he goes,His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twineRound a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,No malice or hatred is there to be found;He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fightsFor love—all for love—for in that he delights,With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?An Irishman all in his glory is there,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.At evening returning, as homeward he goes,His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twineRound a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;

He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;

With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.

His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,

No malice or hatred is there to be found;

He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights

For love—all for love—for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.

Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?An Irishman all in his glory is there,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?

An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;

His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,

A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;

He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,

He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,

His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,

From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,

Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.

To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,

A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?

“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twineRound a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,

Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.

May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,

Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.

United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,

May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine

Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”

The Low Back’d Car.When first I saw sweet Peggy,’Twas on a market day;A Low Back’d Car she drove, and satUpon a truss of hay.But when that hay was blooming grass,And deck’d with flowers of spring,No flowers were there that could compareWith the lovely girl I sing,As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.In battle’s wild commotion,The proud and mighty Mars,With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,Of death in warlike scars;But Peggy, peaceful goddess,Has darts in her bright eye,That knock men down in the market-town,As right and left they fly;As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heartThat is hit from the Low Back’d Car.Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,Has strings of ducks and geese;But the scores of hearts she slaughters,By far outnumber these.While she among her poultry sits,Just like a turtle-dove,Well worth the cage, I do engage,Of the blooming God of Love.As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.I’d rather own that car, sir,With Peggy by my side,Than a coach and four, and gold galore,With a lady for my bride.For the lady would sit forninst me,On a cushion made with taste,While Peggy would sit beside me,With my arm around her waist.As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,’Twas on a market day;A Low Back’d Car she drove, and satUpon a truss of hay.But when that hay was blooming grass,And deck’d with flowers of spring,No flowers were there that could compareWith the lovely girl I sing,As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.In battle’s wild commotion,The proud and mighty Mars,With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,Of death in warlike scars;But Peggy, peaceful goddess,Has darts in her bright eye,That knock men down in the market-town,As right and left they fly;As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heartThat is hit from the Low Back’d Car.Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,Has strings of ducks and geese;But the scores of hearts she slaughters,By far outnumber these.While she among her poultry sits,Just like a turtle-dove,Well worth the cage, I do engage,Of the blooming God of Love.As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.I’d rather own that car, sir,With Peggy by my side,Than a coach and four, and gold galore,With a lady for my bride.For the lady would sit forninst me,On a cushion made with taste,While Peggy would sit beside me,With my arm around her waist.As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,

’Twas on a market day;

A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay.

But when that hay was blooming grass,

And deck’d with flowers of spring,

No flowers were there that could compare

With the lovely girl I sing,

As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,

Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,

But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.

In battle’s wild commotion,The proud and mighty Mars,With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,Of death in warlike scars;But Peggy, peaceful goddess,Has darts in her bright eye,That knock men down in the market-town,As right and left they fly;As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heartThat is hit from the Low Back’d Car.

In battle’s wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars,

With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,

Of death in warlike scars;

But Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,

That knock men down in the market-town,

As right and left they fly;

As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart

That is hit from the Low Back’d Car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,Has strings of ducks and geese;But the scores of hearts she slaughters,By far outnumber these.While she among her poultry sits,Just like a turtle-dove,Well worth the cage, I do engage,Of the blooming God of Love.As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese;

But the scores of hearts she slaughters,

By far outnumber these.

While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,

Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming God of Love.

As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,

And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,

As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.

I’d rather own that car, sir,With Peggy by my side,Than a coach and four, and gold galore,With a lady for my bride.For the lady would sit forninst me,On a cushion made with taste,While Peggy would sit beside me,With my arm around her waist.As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.

I’d rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,

With a lady for my bride.

For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,

While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist.

As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,

Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,

As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.

Poor Old Maids.Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,What will become of us, poor old maids?Fourscore and four of us,Without a penny in our purse,What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,Nursing cats is all we do,Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed,And not a word to us is said,And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind,If the men would be so kind,As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room,I hope they’ll marry very soon,And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.

Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,What will become of us, poor old maids?Fourscore and four of us,Without a penny in our purse,What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,Nursing cats is all we do,Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed,And not a word to us is said,And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind,If the men would be so kind,As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room,I hope they’ll marry very soon,And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.

Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,What will become of us, poor old maids?Fourscore and four of us,Without a penny in our purse,What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?

Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,

What will become of us, poor old maids?

Fourscore and four of us,

Without a penny in our purse,

What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,Nursing cats is all we do,Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,

Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,

Nursing cats is all we do,

Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.

All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,All alone we go to bed,And not a word to us is said,And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.

All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,

All alone we go to bed,

And not a word to us is said,

And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.

We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,We’re all in a willing mind,If the men would be so kind,As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.

We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,

We’re all in a willing mind,

If the men would be so kind,

As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.

And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,And if there’s any in this room,I hope they’ll marry very soon,And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.

And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,

And if there’s any in this room,

I hope they’ll marry very soon,

And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.

O God! Preserve the Mariner.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.O God! preserve the mariner,When o’er the troubled deepThe rolling thunder-lightning flash,And howling tempests sweep;When like a reed the tall mast shakes,And human art is vain,O God! restore the marinerTo home, dear home again.The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,But dreams disturb her sleep,She starts to hear the hollow wind,And turns aside to weep;She clasps her baby, and she prays,Through tears, like falling rain,“O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.”The widow for her darling child,Her bosom’s only joy,Invokes the Power that rules the storm,For blessings on her boy.When ruin lurketh in the cloud,And death sweeps o’er the main,O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.

Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond, & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.

O God! preserve the mariner,When o’er the troubled deepThe rolling thunder-lightning flash,And howling tempests sweep;When like a reed the tall mast shakes,And human art is vain,O God! restore the marinerTo home, dear home again.The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,But dreams disturb her sleep,She starts to hear the hollow wind,And turns aside to weep;She clasps her baby, and she prays,Through tears, like falling rain,“O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.”The widow for her darling child,Her bosom’s only joy,Invokes the Power that rules the storm,For blessings on her boy.When ruin lurketh in the cloud,And death sweeps o’er the main,O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.

O God! preserve the mariner,

When o’er the troubled deep

The rolling thunder-lightning flash,

And howling tempests sweep;

When like a reed the tall mast shakes,

And human art is vain,

O God! restore the mariner

To home, dear home again.

The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,But dreams disturb her sleep,She starts to hear the hollow wind,And turns aside to weep;She clasps her baby, and she prays,Through tears, like falling rain,“O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.”

The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,

But dreams disturb her sleep,

She starts to hear the hollow wind,

And turns aside to weep;

She clasps her baby, and she prays,

Through tears, like falling rain,

“O God! restore the mariner,

To home, dear home again.”

The widow for her darling child,Her bosom’s only joy,Invokes the Power that rules the storm,For blessings on her boy.When ruin lurketh in the cloud,And death sweeps o’er the main,O God! restore the mariner,To home, dear home again.

The widow for her darling child,

Her bosom’s only joy,

Invokes the Power that rules the storm,

For blessings on her boy.

When ruin lurketh in the cloud,

And death sweeps o’er the main,

O God! restore the mariner,

To home, dear home again.

A Merry Gipsy Girl again.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.A merry Gipsy girl again,I’m free to rove at will:The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,The valley and the hillHow poor the proudest roof ye boastTo that high-arched dome,Whose boundless circle makes me thinkThe whole wide world my home.Here none can bar the free fresh air,Nor mete out heaven’s light,Nor make the glorious day appearToo near akin to night.Amid the beauties of the meadMy summer days are spent,And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent;And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent.I wander freely as the fawnWhich hath not learnt to fearThe death-cry of the hunter’s voiceResounding far and near;And bounding through the woodsI feel as if I too could soar,Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,And sing for evermore!Come out, ye pent-up toilers!Come, from city dark and drear,And see what gladness Nature hasIn all her beauties here;And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,Your time has well been spent,And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent;And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent.

Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.

A merry Gipsy girl again,I’m free to rove at will:The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,The valley and the hillHow poor the proudest roof ye boastTo that high-arched dome,Whose boundless circle makes me thinkThe whole wide world my home.Here none can bar the free fresh air,Nor mete out heaven’s light,Nor make the glorious day appearToo near akin to night.Amid the beauties of the meadMy summer days are spent,And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent;And joyfully the stars look downUpon my Gipsy tent.I wander freely as the fawnWhich hath not learnt to fearThe death-cry of the hunter’s voiceResounding far and near;And bounding through the woodsI feel as if I too could soar,Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,And sing for evermore!Come out, ye pent-up toilers!Come, from city dark and drear,And see what gladness Nature hasIn all her beauties here;And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,Your time has well been spent,And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent;And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent.

A merry Gipsy girl again,

I’m free to rove at will:

The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,

The valley and the hill

How poor the proudest roof ye boast

To that high-arched dome,

Whose boundless circle makes me think

The whole wide world my home.

Here none can bar the free fresh air,

Nor mete out heaven’s light,

Nor make the glorious day appear

Too near akin to night.

Amid the beauties of the mead

My summer days are spent,

And joyfully the stars look down

Upon my Gipsy tent;

And joyfully the stars look down

Upon my Gipsy tent.

I wander freely as the fawnWhich hath not learnt to fearThe death-cry of the hunter’s voiceResounding far and near;And bounding through the woodsI feel as if I too could soar,Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,And sing for evermore!Come out, ye pent-up toilers!Come, from city dark and drear,And see what gladness Nature hasIn all her beauties here;And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,Your time has well been spent,And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent;And wish that all the worldCould be, one happy Gipsy tent.

I wander freely as the fawn

Which hath not learnt to fear

The death-cry of the hunter’s voice

Resounding far and near;

And bounding through the woods

I feel as if I too could soar,

Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,

And sing for evermore!

Come out, ye pent-up toilers!

Come, from city dark and drear,

And see what gladness Nature has

In all her beauties here;

And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,

Your time has well been spent,

And wish that all the world

Could be, one happy Gipsy tent;

And wish that all the world

Could be, one happy Gipsy tent.

Let Me Kiss Him for His Mother.Let me kiss him for his mother,Let me kiss his youthful brow;I will love him for his mother,And seek her blessing now.Kind friends have soothed his pillow,Have watch’d his every care;Beneath the weeping willow,Oh, lay him gently there.CHORUS.Sleep, dearest, sleep;I love you as a brother;Kind friends around you weep,I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,Let me kiss him for his mother,What though left a stranger here?She has loved him as none other,I feel her blessing near.Though cold that form lies sleeping,Sweet angels watch around;Dear friends are near thee weeping;Oh, lay him gently down.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.Let me kiss him for his mother,Or perchance a sister dear;If a father or a brother,I know their blessing’s here.Then kiss him for his mother:’Twill soothe her after-years;Farewell, dear stranger brother,Our requiem, our tears.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,Let me kiss his youthful brow;I will love him for his mother,And seek her blessing now.Kind friends have soothed his pillow,Have watch’d his every care;Beneath the weeping willow,Oh, lay him gently there.CHORUS.Sleep, dearest, sleep;I love you as a brother;Kind friends around you weep,I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,Let me kiss him for his mother,What though left a stranger here?She has loved him as none other,I feel her blessing near.Though cold that form lies sleeping,Sweet angels watch around;Dear friends are near thee weeping;Oh, lay him gently down.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.Let me kiss him for his mother,Or perchance a sister dear;If a father or a brother,I know their blessing’s here.Then kiss him for his mother:’Twill soothe her after-years;Farewell, dear stranger brother,Our requiem, our tears.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,

Let me kiss his youthful brow;

I will love him for his mother,

And seek her blessing now.

Kind friends have soothed his pillow,

Have watch’d his every care;

Beneath the weeping willow,

Oh, lay him gently there.

CHORUS.

Sleep, dearest, sleep;I love you as a brother;Kind friends around you weep,I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,

Sleep, dearest, sleep;

I love you as a brother;

Kind friends around you weep,

I’ve kiss’d you for your mother,

Let me kiss him for his mother,What though left a stranger here?She has loved him as none other,I feel her blessing near.Though cold that form lies sleeping,Sweet angels watch around;Dear friends are near thee weeping;Oh, lay him gently down.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,

What though left a stranger here?

She has loved him as none other,

I feel her blessing near.

Though cold that form lies sleeping,

Sweet angels watch around;

Dear friends are near thee weeping;

Oh, lay him gently down.

Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,Or perchance a sister dear;If a father or a brother,I know their blessing’s here.Then kiss him for his mother:’Twill soothe her after-years;Farewell, dear stranger brother,Our requiem, our tears.Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

Let me kiss him for his mother,

Or perchance a sister dear;

If a father or a brother,

I know their blessing’s here.

Then kiss him for his mother:

’Twill soothe her after-years;

Farewell, dear stranger brother,

Our requiem, our tears.

Sleep, dearest, sleep, &c.

My ain Fireside.Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as,’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws,At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been,Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een,CHORUS.But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

Copied by permission ofFirth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, publishers of the music.

Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as,’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws,At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been,Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een,CHORUS.But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

Oh! I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’as,

’Mang Lords and mang Ladies, a’ cover’d wi’ braws,

At feasts made for Princes wi’ Princes I’ve been,

Whar the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een,

CHORUS.

But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.

But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,

As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain fireside.

Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.

Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,

Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;

Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,

I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.

Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.

Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,

But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;

O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,

There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.

Chorus.—My ain fireside. &c.

The Indian Warrior’s Grave.Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiverWhere in his pride he roved in his childhoodFought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;Where the pale foe and he struggled together,Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.

Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiverWhere in his pride he roved in his childhoodFought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;Where the pale foe and he struggled together,Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.

Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiverWhere in his pride he roved in his childhoodFought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.

Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,

Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiver

Where in his pride he roved in his childhood

Fought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.

In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;Where the pale foe and he struggled together,Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.

In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,

Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;

Where the pale foe and he struggled together,

Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.

Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.

Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;

And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.

But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,

Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.

Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breezeBear riches for him alone—And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,Which the white man calls his own.Yha, yha!Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!Yha, yha, yha!The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.Yha, yha!Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.Yha, yha, yha!

Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?

Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?

He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze

Bear riches for him alone—

And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,

Which the white man calls his own.

Yha, yha!

Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!Yha, yha, yha!

Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?

Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!

Yha, yha, yha!

The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.Yha, yha!

The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—

There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.

The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,

And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.

Yha, yha!

Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.Yha, yha, yha!

Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,

To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.

Yha, yha, yha!

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