The old brown cot, the low brown cot,
The moss-grown cot beneath the hill;
Though years have pass’d since I was there,
I love it, oh, I love it still.
It stood beside the running brook
Whose waters turn’d the noisy mill;
And close beside the tall old oaks
That nodded on the sloping hill.
The woodbine creeping o’er the walls,
The sunshine on the grassy plot,
How beautiful were they to me,
When home was in that old brown cot!
The old brown cot, &c.
Though I may view the fairest land
On which the sun in glory beams,
And dwell in climes more beautiful
Than poets visit in their dreams,
Still will affection linger round
That loved and consecrated spot,
And tears will fall as I go back
To boyhood and the old brown cot.
The old brown cot, &c.
13
Come, gang awa’ wi’ me.
Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.,
publishers of the music.
Oh! come my love, the moon shines bright,
Across yon rippling sea,
Come let thy heart be gay and light,
And hasten love wi’ me.
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met
Beneath the greenwood tree,
Then let thy heart be lighter yet,
Come, gang awa’ wi’ me.
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met,
Beneath the greenwood tree,
Then let thy heart be lighter yet,
Come gang awa’ wi’ me.
Oh! tarry not, my only love,
I’ve pledged myself to thee,
And by yon stars that shine above,
Forever thine I’ll be;
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met
Beneath the greenwood tree,
Then say, ere yonder stars have set,
Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me.
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met
Beneath the greenwood tree,
Then say ere yonder stars have set,
Thou’lt gang awa’ wi’ me.
Thy features are so fair my love,
Thy mind is ever free,
Oh! let thy willing heart still prove
The love thou bear’st to me.
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met
Beneath the greenwood tree,
Then say ere yonder stars have set,
I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye.
’Tis mony a night sin’ first we met,
Beneath the greenwood tree.
Then say, ere yonder stars have set,
I’ll gang awa’ wi’ ye.
14
The Railroad Engineer’s Song.
I love--oh, how I love to ride
The Iron Horse in his fiery pride!
All other joys seem dull and vain,
When I lay my hand on his misty mane.
Fear him not! with his ribs of steel,
His flaming throat, and his brushing wheel;
And his smoky crest, so black and tall,
Like a pillar cover’d with a funeral pall.
Though his stamping shakes the solid ground,
And he scatters fire-flakes all around,
He’s gentle as jennet in lady’s rein
When he feels my hand on his misty mane.
Set me astride of the Iron Horse!
Full of fierce fury, speed, and force;
And hark how he pants, and blows, and snorts,
While my skill his eager bounding thwarts.
But when I’m mounted on his back,
And you see him coming--clear the track!
Nothing can check him on his course,
As he thunders along--my Iron Horse!
Then huzza! the Iron Horse for me!
The eagle scarce flies as fast as he;
He skims the valley and scours the plain,
And shakes, like a cloud, his misty mane.
He tracks the prairie, climbs the hill,
The wild woods echo his neighing shrill;
And when the fierce tempest lashes the shores,
Louder than ever the storm he roars.
15
Linda’s gone to Baltimore.
Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.,
publishers of the music.
Oh, Linda’s gone to Baltimore,
To stay a week or two,
And till she comes safe home again,
I don’t know what to do.
I take the banjo on my knee,
But can not hear to play,
For music only makes me sad,
When Linda’s gone away,
When Linda’s gone away.