Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Says I, “You see dat door ? just mosey nigga Joe, For I'm a Suskehannah boy, wot knows a ting or two."

Sich a gittin, &c. And den I show my sciance,-prenez gardez vous, Bung he eye, break he shin, split he nose in two!

Sich a gittin, &c. Sal beller out-den she jump up between us, But guess he no forget de day when Isam show his genus.

Sich a gittin, &c. Den big Joe went out, he gwan to take de law, But he no fool de possum-I cut my stick for Baltimore.

Sich a gittin, &c. Two behind and two before, Wait till you get to the watch-house door.

Sich a gittin, &c, Sal is sassy, I know what she means, She's been to school, and is up to beans.

Sich a gittin, &c. If you want a song, get one dat's fat, "The gallant Hussar,” or “All round my Hat.”

Sich a gittin, &c. Turner and Fisher, dey go de hole figga, Dey's de chaps what mortalize de nigga.

Sich a gittin, &c. When you buy dis, and know it right well, Fetch along de change, and get de “Singer's Jewel.”

Sich a gittin, &c.

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to see ;
Three blyther hearts, that leelang night,

Ye wadna found in Christendie.

We are nae fou, we're na that fou,

But just a drappie in our ee;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys, I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mair we hope to be!

We are na fou' &c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That blinkin in the lift sae hie ;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

We are na fou, &c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa',

A cuckold, coward lown, is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three.

We are na fou, &c.

BATTLE SONG. UP, comrades, up-see the morn's o'er the mountains,

Rouse from your slumber and rush on the foe; Though bright and clear now, ere ev'ning the fountains

Dark with the blood of the slaughter'd shall flow ! 'Tis our last struggle for freedom and honour,

Blow your wild trumpets and call up the brave ! Fight for your country-shame is upon her!

On to the conflict to die or to save. Farewell, ye dear ones, that ere the invader

Wasted our vallies, have softend and charm'd The hearts of our country, with feelings that made her

Best belov'd land that romance ever warm'd :

Here to our lutes we've been sighing inglorious,

But spear and shield to our grasp now are given, We'll meet again here, ere night, if victorious,

If not, adieu then-we'll meet yet in heav'n ! Up, comrades, up,--see the morn's o'er the mountains !

Rouse from your slumber and rush on the foe; Though bright and clear now, ere ev’ning the fountains

Dark with the blood of the slaughter'd shall flow; And tho'we die—we shall yet live in story,

True hearts we'll prove to our country and name ; Death may have terrors, but still there's a glory

In dying for native land, freedom, and fame.

REST, WARRIOR REST.

He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight,
He comes thro' the storm, and the darkness of night.
For rest and for refuge now fain to implore,
The warrior bends low at the cottager's door ;
Pale, pale, is his cheek, there's a gash on his brow,
His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow;
And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye,
Like a languishing lamp, that just flashes to die.

Rest, warrior, rest.
Sunk in silence and sleep, in the cottager's bed,
Oblivion shall visit the war-weary head;
Perchance he may dream, but the vision shall tell
Of his lady-love's bow'r, and her latest farewell ;
Illusion and love chase the battle's alarms,
He shall dream that his mistress lies lock'd in his arms;
He shall feel on his lips the sweet warmth of her kiss,
Ah! warrior, wake not! such slumber is bliss !

Rest, warrior, rest.

THE CRICKETER. To live a life, free from gout, pain, or phthisic, Athletic employment is found the best physic; The nerves are by exercise hardened and strengthened, And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened.

Derry down, &c. What conduces to health deserves recommendation, 'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation ; And of all the field-games ever practised or known, That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own.

Derry down, &c. Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight, If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite.

Derry down, &c. The cricketer noble in mind, as in merit, A taste for oppression can never inherit, A stranger to swindling, he never would wish To seduce by false baits, and betray a poor fish.

Derry down, &c. No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind, To innocent animals never unkind, The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare, Averse to the hunting or killing the hare.

Derry down, &c. We knights of the bat the pure ether respire, Which, heightened by toil, keeps alive Nature's fire ; No suits of crim. con. or divorce can assail us, For in love, as in cricket, our powers never fail us.

Derry down, &c. To every great duke, and to each noble lord, Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord; And to all brother knights whether absent or present, Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant.

Derry down, &c.

THE VORKHOUSE BOY.
The cloth vos laid in the vorkhouse hall,
And the great-coats hung on the vhite-vash'd vall;
The paupers all vere blithe and gay,
Keeping their Christmas holiday :
When the master cried vith a roguish leer,
You'll all get fat on your Christmas cheer ;
And one by his looks he seem'd to say,
I'll have more soup on this Christmas day!

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.
At length all of us to bed vos sent,
The boy vos missing, in search ve vent:
Ve sought him above, ve sought him below,
Ve sought him vith faces of grief and voe ;
Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night,
Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright;
Vhen a young pauper cries, “I know ve shall
Get jolly veil vopt for loosing our pall.”

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c. Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew, Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue : Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle and pot, In vatter-butt look'd, but found him not. And veeks fiew on ve vere all of us told, That somebody said he'd been burk’d and sold; Vhen our master goes out, the parishioners vild, Cry, “There goes the cove that burk'd the poor child !".

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c. At length the soup coppers repairs did need, The coppersmith came, and there he seed A dollop of bones lay grizzling there, In the leg of the breeches the boy did vear. To gain his fill the boy did stoop, And, dreadful to tell, he vos boil'd in the soup! And ve all of us say it, and say it with sneers, That he vos pushed in by the overseers.

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

« ForrigeFortsæt »