I’ll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion at a bountiful old rate,
With a good old porter to relieve the old poor at the gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.
His hall, so old, was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers, which had stood against old
foes,
And ’twas here “his worship” sat in state, in doublet and trunk
hose,
And quaff’d his cup of good old sack to warm his good old nose.
Like a fine old, &c.
When winter old, brought frost and cold, he open’d house to all,
And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball,
Nor was the houseless wanderer e’er driven from his hall,
For while he feasted all the great he ne’er forgot the small.
Like a fine old, &c.
But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll’d
swiftly by,
And autumn’s falling leaf proclaim’d, the old man--he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life’s latest sigh,
And mournful friends stood round his couch, and tears bedim’d each
eye.
For the fine old, &c.
The Fine Old Irish Gentleman.
I’ll sing you a dacent song that was made by a Paddy’s pate,
Of a raal ould Irish gintleman, who had a fine estate,
Whose mansion it was made of mud, with thatch and all complate,
With a hole at top, through which the smoke so graceful did ratrate.
Hurrah for the ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
His walls so could, were cover’d wid the devil a thing for show,
Except an ould shillelah, which had knock’d down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sat at ease, and without shoes or hose,
And quaff’d his noggin of poteen to warm his big red nose.
Like a fine ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
To Donnybrook his custom was to go to every fair,
And though he’d seen a few score years, he still was young when
there;
And while the rich they feasted him, he still, among the poor,
Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens
roar.
Like a raal ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
19
But och, mavrone! once at a row ould Barney got a knock,
And one that kilt him, ’cause he couldn’t get o’er the shock,
They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,
Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did you die? och, hone!
Then they waked this Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
Though all things in their coarse must change, and seasons pass
away,
Yet Irish hearts of oulden time were just as at this day.
Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man,
To serve a friend and bate a foe, it always was the plan
Of a raal old Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
The Fine Old Dutch Gentleman.
I’ll sing you now a Dietchen song ’bout Hans Yon Krouplegheet,
Vot keept a lager bier saloon up in de Bowery shtreet,
He eat de shwinepeefe, shpeek, un slough, un efery kind of meat,
Un I shvear mit mine goot grashus, pon top de people, so much as
a barrel of sourcrout, un two puchels of lager bier, efery
morning he would eat!
He vas a fine old Dietchen shentlemen von of the pestest kind.
By de fireshtove in his bier saloon efery morning he uoold shtand,
Mit a bottle of schnapps down by his side, un a glass up in his
hand,
Un by himself he trinks dis toast, “Ich lieben die Vaderland,”
Un midout you could Dietsche vershter, for he vold nix Inglish
gasprochen ven he’d say, “Spechlebecks von-grossen-dunder un
blitzen nut-de-swimegrahdle skipoupens-die-dobbleshm,” you
couldn’t nix undershtand.
Dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind.
His nose vas red ash a beetle, yaw, by dunder, dat ish drue,
His mouth pout fourdeen inches wide, his eyes vere black ash plue.
He pelongs mit de Freesangerbund, un he vas a Turner too,
Un politics makes him nix difference, but ven you comes mit de
Maine liquors law to dake avay his lager bier, den, py dam,
dat vas someding new,
To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de pestest kind.
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Dis fine old Dietchen shentlemen he vent to bed drunk efery night,
Un somedimes ven dere vas coming rount elections, mit de udder
fellers he’d fight,
Un slouck dem on de koup mit a double-barrel’d powie knife, but I
don’t tink dat vas rite,
For ven vun of dem peeples haf his head preak’d into his nose all
ofer his face, un vas nearly drownded mit a big stick, I tell
you somedings rite avay shust now dat vas a sorry sight,
To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind.
But von time dere comed some drouples, un he fight mit all his
main,
Dough he vas kilt von two ash six eight couple of times, he shumps
up un fites again,
Dill his hed vas all splitted open down pack, un den de blood comes
down like rain;
Un py and py come dere de coroner mit de shury, un sit on him apout
dwenty-two hours ash tree-quarters, un shqueeze all de preth
out of his pody, den dey prings in a verdigrass, vot he dies
from prandy and vater on de prain,
Does dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, de subject of dis song.
Over the Left.
I am thine in thy gladness,
I am thine in thy tears,
My love, it can change not
In absence or years.
Were a dungeon thy dwelling,
My home it should be,
Its gloom would be sunshine,
Were I but with thee.
For life has no beauty
Of thee, love, bereft.
I am thine, and thine only,
THINE OVER THE LEFT.
John Jones, 21
A PARODY ON BEN BOLT.
Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,
Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,
Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,
And went into fits at your frown.
In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,
Where the goslins are learning to swim,
Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,
And, by a mistake, fell in.
Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,
That winds at the foot of the hill,
Together we’ve seen the old mare go,
Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.
The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,
The rafters fell on to a cow,
And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,
Are lords of the cider mill now.
Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,
Which stood on the path to the barn,
And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,
Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.
The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,
The lightning the tree overcome,
And down where the onions and carrots once grew,
Grows thistles as big as your thumb.
There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,
They have changed from the good to the bad,
And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,
I’d like to go home to my dad.
Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,
Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,
And yet I believe I am your only true friend,
John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.