Wake! Dinah, wake! the bright moon is beaming
O’er the meadow, the corn-field, and the hill;
And the stars, though no brighter than thy bright eyes,
Are gleaming o’er the earth all so calm and still.
Wake! Dinah, wake! the gentle breeze is blowing,
The bird’s notes still hush’d in the grove;
The ivy around the sturdy oak is growing,
Clinging fondly as though something still to love
The shining river views it as onward rolling by,
And as on golden sands the ripples break,
In sweet enchanting tones it seems to murmur,
Wake, now, my dearest Dinah, wake!
CHORUS.--Wake! Dinah, wake, &c.
Wake! Dinah, wake! and open thy lattice,
My heart, love, can brook no delay,
How dearly I love to thy sweet voice to listen,
More sweet than the lark’s morning lay.
Then come, dearest, come, for each throb of my heart
Speaks in language which love can not mistake,
So true that from thee I can not depart,
Then wake, now, my dearest Dinah, wake!
CHORUS.--Wake! Dinah, wake, &c.
Umbrella Courtship.
A belle and a beau would walking go,
In love they both were pining;
The wind in gentle gales did blow,
An April sun was shining.
Though Simon long had courted Miss,
He knew he’d acted wrong in
Not having dared to steal a kiss,
Which set her quite a longing--Tol ol ol.
It so occurred as they did walk,
And viewed each dale so flow’ry,
As Simon by her side did stalk,
Declared the sky looked show’ry.
The rain came to her like a drug,
When loudly he did bellow,
“Look here, my love, we can be snug,
For I’ve got an umbrella”--Tol ol ol.
Quick flew the shelter over Miss;
Now Simon was a droll one,
He thought this was the time to kiss,
So from her lips he stole one.
She blushed;--the rain left off, and he
The umbrella closed for draining;
“Oh don’t,” says she, “I plainly see,
It hasn’t left off raining.”--Tol ol ol.
Now Simon when he smoked the plan,
The umbrella righted,
He grew quite bold, talked like a man,
And she seemed quite delighted.
Their lips rang chimes full fifty times,
Like simple lovers training;
Says she “These are but lover’s crimes;
I hope it won’t leave off raining.”--Tol ol ol.
Before they reached the door that night,
He all his love did tell her,
She said when you a courting come,
Don’t forget your umbrella.
They married were, had children dear,
Eight round-faced little fellows;
And strange to state the whole of the eight,
Were marked with umbrellas.--Tol ol ol.
The Lily of the West.
I just came down from Louisville, some pleasure for to find,
A handsome girl from Michigan, so pleasing to my mind;
Her rosy cheeks and rolling eyes like arrows pierced my breast,
They call her handsome Mary, the Lily of the West.
I court’d her for many a day, her love I thought to gain,
Too soon, too soon she slighted me, which caused me grief and pain;
She robb’d me of my liberty--deprived me of my rest,
They call her handsome Mary, the Lily of the West.
One evening as I rambled down by yon shady grove,
I met a lord of high degree, conversing with my love;
He sang, he sang so merrily, while I was sore oppress’d,
He sang for handsome Mary, the Lily of the West.
I rushed upon my rival, a dagger in my hand,
I tore him from my true love, and boldly made him stand;
Being mad to desperation, my dagger pierced his breast,
I was betray’d by Mary, the Lily of the West.
Now my trial has come on, and sentenced soon I’ll be,
They put me in the criminal box and there convicted me,
She so deceived the jury, so modestly did dress,
She far outshone bright Venus--the Lily of the West.
Since then I’ve gain’d my liberty, I’ll rove the country through,
I’ll travel the city over, to find my loved one true;
Although she stole my liberty, and deprived me of my rest,
I love my Mary, the Lily of the West.
The Watcher.
The night was dark and fearful,
The blast swept wailing by,
A watcher, pale and tearful,
Look’d forth with anxious eye;
How wistfully she gazeth,
No gleam of morn is there;
Her eyes to heaven she raiseth
In agony of prayer.
Within that dwelling lonely,
Where want and darkness reign,
Her precious child, her only,
Lay moaning in his pain;
And death alone can free him,
She felt that this must be,
But oh, for morn to see him
Smile once again on me.
A hundred lights are glancing
In yonder mansion fair,
And merry feet are dancing,
They heed not morning there;
Oh, young and joyous creatures,
One lamp from out your store
Would give that young boy’s features
To his mother’s gaze once more.
The morning sun is shining,
She heedeth not its ray,
Beside her dead reclining,
The pale, dead mother lay.
A smile her lips was wreathing,
A smile of hope and love,
As though she still were breathing,
“There’s light for us above.”
The Old Arm-Chair.
I 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 bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs!
’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell?--a mother sat there!
A sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood’s hour I linger’d near
The hallow’d seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that 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.
I sat and watch’d her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worship’d her when she smiled,
And turn’d from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll’d on, but the last one sped--
My idol was shatter’d, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in the old arm-chair.
’Tis past, ’tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
’Twas there she nursed, ’twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it! and can not tear
My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair.
Grave of Bonaparte.
Copied by permission of OLIVER DITSON & CO. 227 Washington St.,
Boston, owners of the copyright.
On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow,
Assail the stern rock and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew drooping willow,
Like fond weeping mourners lean’d over the grave;
The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle,
He heeds not, he hears not, he’s free from all pain,
He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle,
No sound can awake him to glory again,
No sound can awake him to glory again.
Yet spirit immortal, the tomb can not bind thee,
For like thine own eagle that soar’d to the sun,
Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind thee
A name, which before thee no mortal had won.
Though nations may combat, and war’s thunders rattle,
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o’er the plain,
Thou sleep’st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle,
No sound can awake thee to glory again,
No sound can awake thee to glory again.
Oh, shade of the mighty, where now are the legions,
That rush’d but to conquer when thou led’st them on?
Alas! they have perish’d in far hilly regions,
And all save the fame of their triumph is gone.
The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle,
They heed not, they hear not, they’re free from all pain;
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle,
No sound can awake them to glory again,
No sound can awake them to glory again.
Whoop De Doodle Do.
Simon had a son born, Whoop de doodle do;
Simon had a son born, Whoop de doodle do.
Simon had a son born,
You’d think she was a daughter--
Yaller Sal de Georgia gal,
And de big bug in de water.