The Universal Songster, Or, Museum of Mirth: Forming the Most Complete ...

It vos von Monday he made Miss Podl his bride, He took her in a von-horse shay, all for to have a ride;

But ven they did return at night, it vos as dark as pitch,

And Sam, being blind vith drinking ale, drove vop into a ditch. Ri tol, &c.

Miss Podly's neck vos broke in two-poor Sam vos bruised sore;

He pulled Miss Podly from the mud, who never not spoke no more;

He took her up a-pick-a-back, and put her in the shay,

fast avay.

Then hit the norse a deuce of a vack, and gallop'd
Ri tol, &c.
It vos a sight all for to see vot vould have freez'd
your blood,

Miss Podly's little button-mouth vos plaster'd up with mud,

Her lovely little satin shoes, and bonnet lined vith pink,

Vot Sam had buy'd the day afore, vos now as black as ink.

How oft would I turn from her kisses and try,
In my fulness of joy to discover

Some cause for a tear; but in earth, sea, or sky,
There was nothing that I could weep over.
For e'en if that sky had enshrouded its hue,
It were nought to make me sad or wary;
I'd a heaven of my own, as bright and as blue,
In the soft sunny eyes of my Mary.

And well I remember, one golden eve,
When the moon had given day warning,
But his rays were so long in taking their leave,
That it seemed they would revel till morning;
An old gipsy we met at the garden-gate,
And though she was haggard and hairy,
How charming I thought her while telling my fate,
Word for word with the eyes of
my Mary!
That moon just silvered the winding brooks,
And again fell under the mountain,

Yet I fancied it ling'ring on Mary's looks,
When I said as I turned to the loadstar of night,
Though dim was the face of the fountain,-
Whose beams never lessen nor vary,

Sure nought under heaven is so constant and bright,

Except the blue eyes of my Mary.

But Mary is gone! and the heart she led

To the cage her enchantments wove it, May flutter unheeded, unfreed, unfed, With no one to cherish, to love it;

Near her, I could bear the sweet thraldom as well

As her own gay bird of Canary;

But the songs that I pour, and the sorrows they tell,

Are unwept by the eyes of my Mary.

KITTY BRADY AND DENNIS O'CONNOR
Air-The bold Dragoon.-(Scarnell.)

IN Ireland, that pretty place,
There lived a charming lady,
She was the talk of all her race,
Her name was Kitty Brady;
But one day deep in love she fell,
'Tis true upon my honour,
And swore she felt love's fatal spell,
For young Dennis O'Connor.

Whack fal de ral, &c.

Now Dennis was as nate a lad,
As any you could find, sir;
With grief his heart was never sad,
But always true and kind, sir.
As Kit and him would snugly sit,
And talk of things so frisky,
Young Dennis never did forget
To close his eyes with whiskey.

Whack fal de ral, &c.

Now hot with love and whiskey too,

Without any more delay, sir,
To father Swipes young Dennis flew,
To name the wedding-day, sir.
Then soon this couple they were wed
Without bother or care, sir,

And then at night they went to bed,
And did what they pleased there, sir.
Whack fal de ral, &c.

FAIR NATURE AROUND IN HER LOVE
LINESS SMILED.

I LOOKED on the ocean, I looked on the sky,
And all seemed contentment and gladness;

I looked on the sea-fowl, as it flew by,
And it bore not a feature of sadness.

I looked on the sun, and he fled with a sigh,

But gave a bright hope for to-morrow; He glanced on the scene with a lingering eye, Like a smile from the visage of sorrow. Oh! beautiful was the tremulous star,

That rose like a watch on the ocean; And sweet was the music that came from afar, On the heavenly wing of devotion. Fair nature around in her loveliness smiled; And the sun just ceased from his duty, He sunk to his rest like an innocent child, Asleep on the bosom of beauty.

TIPPY JACK'S JOURNEY TO BRIGHTON.

(Barrett.)

Он! ye bucks and ye bloods o' the town,
Come listen awhile unto me;

"Tis Jack, o' my Jack so renowned,

And this is young Gilpin you see.
"Tis of what did befal t'other day;
To be sure, it was only a rig;
But this I will certainly say,

It was all along driving my gig.

SPOKEN.] And as Papa Gilpin's journey to Edmonton has made a bit of noise, I will just give a short description of my intended trip to Brighton. You must know, that my filly, thorough-bred, in turning round the corner of Garlick-hill, took fright at the face of an old clothesman, and, without the least ceremony, pitched me plump into the centre of a mud-cart, where I began to sing

Ři um ti iddity um, &c.

Well, up I was once more again,
And, thanks to my stars, too, unhurt;
And when fixed in my gig looked the thing,
Except something worse for the dirt.

My elbows I knowingly squared,
I seemed like a swallow to fly;
When plump against a cart run the mare,
And down again headlong came I.

SPOKEN.] I was now tossed into a fruit-shop, where the apples and pears rolled one way, and I head-over-heels another. Twig the tailor, says one. You lie, says another, it's the barber.-Oh! thank you, gentlemen, says I, it's only

Ri um ti iddity um, &c.

So when the damage was paid,
Away gallop'd I out of sight;
But scarce had another street made,
Before she again, sirs, took fright.

For spanking along Piccadilly,

I somehow run over a pig,

When off set the bitch of a filly,

And bundled me out of the gig.

LET'S DRINK, MY FRIENDS, WHILE HERE WE LIVE.

LET'S drink, my friends, while here we live : The fleeting moments, as they pass,

This silent admonition give

T'improve our time, and push the glass. When once we've entered Charon's boat, Farewell to drinking, joys divine! There's not a drop to wet our throat,The grave's a cellar void of wine.

.......

WHAT WERE LIFE, DEPRIVED OF THEE? [Translated from the German Opera of Abu Hassan. Music by Weber.]

THE bird that fortune's power

Hath caged from hill and plain,
Ne'er mourns the happy hour
That freedom gives again;
But perched beside the fountain,
With fluttering heart and wings,
She bids the distant mountain
Repeat the strain she sings;
Or soaring up to heaven,

She cleaves the fleecy cloud,
And thinks of fetters riven,

And feels of freedom proud.
But Abu Hassan, what to me

Were life deprived of thee?
O sweeter far were prison tower,
If that were shared with thee, love,
Than lordly hall or rosy bower,

If thou wert torn from me, love.
The chains that I may seem to wear,
The chains that love imposes,
To me as fragrant seem and fair
As wreathes composed of roses.

Oh, Miss Flannikin! Then she began again,

SPOKEN.] Oh! this was not the worst job of all; My nose she would pull, and commit other sin

"Isn't

for after I had paid the butcher two pounds, six-
teen shillings, and three farthings, for the loss
of his grunter, in touching the mare under the left
flank, in order to evade paying the turnpike
at Hyde-Park-Corner, she run me against the post,
half-killed an old beggar-woman, upset a man-
milliner, smacked one of the shafts in two, and
left me sprawling in the dirt.-Why don't you get I've
up? says the turnpike man.-Why don't you keep
moving, sir? says another.-D-n you, says I,
don't you see I'm moving? So I begun to sing
Ri um ti iddity um, &c.

And

again;

She made me look shy,

And she forced me to cry

this cruel treatment for Mister O'Finnigin?"

Says I, "Miss O'Flan,

If you'll wed, I'm your man,

fifteen yellow-boys and a fine 'tatoe-garden,

Though I own I was vexed when to court you | So, if they won't bury the dead,

began again:

But now, I confess,

You have tipped me heart's ease,

For I long to be married," cried Molly O'Flan

nikin.

But Miss Flannikin

Told a big man again

That himself was quite fat, and I was as thin again;

And, the very next day,

Faith, she scampered away;

Wasn't this cruel treatment for Mr. O'Finnigin?

Now, to gain satisfaction,

I entered an action

Against this fat fellow that stole Mrs. Finnigin.

When for bigamy tried,

Och, I thought he'd have died!

Why, then we've no call for grave-digging.
Rite fol, &c.

Craniology now is the go,

And phrenologist's wisdom so great,
They've improved it so much, that they know
By the bumps what will come of the pate.
Our roads are improving quite fast,
And coachmen do much recommend 'em ;
M'Adam swears his plan's the best-

That's to break up the roads for to mend 'em.
Rite fol, &c.

Play-acting improves every day,

For we find Sadler's Wells and the Surrey
Have got but one company for both,

And they work 'em both for the same money.
Melodrames will be written by steam,
And cast-iron actors to play 'em;

But here, you must know, I was out in the thing Then managers sure will get rich,
again;

For Molly declared

That herself was ensnared,

And she likewise expected a cow an' a pig of me.
So I paid each cost,

And my Molly I lost,

While her husband, the thief, was acquitted of bigamy.

Then, with joking me

And provoking me,

I'm mad, I must own, and no sense I shall win

again;

For, with my folly,

And losing my Molly,

For they'll never want cash for to pay 'em
Rite fol, &c.

Improvement's so very improved,

And improvements so very combined,
That coaches will soon need no horses,
They'll make them to go with the wind.
They've improved on our iron inventions,
Our English mechanics are clever,
And now,
in the stead of stone bridges,
Cast-iron's thrown over the river.

Our army and navy improves,
For cannon by steam can be fired,

This treatment has murdered poor Peter O'Finnigin. And soon they'll invent us a shoe

shades,

Where the moments so blissfully flew,
When you called me the pride of Castilian maids,
And I blushed to be called so by you,
When you taught me to warble the gay seguidill,
Or to dance to the light castanet;

Ah never, dear youth, let you roam where you
will,

The delight of these moments forget.

They tell me ye lovers of Erin's green isle
Too soon a new passion may feel;

And soon, in the light of some lovelier smile,
You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.

But they know not how brave in the battle you are,
Or they never could think you would rove,
For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war
That's the fondest and truest in love.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Rite fol, &c.

That the wearer may never be tired;
They've improved on the making of boots,
For the brass now revolves on the heels,
And our steam-boats from London to Calais
Are made for to run upon wheels.

Rite fol, &c.
My improvements are now at an end,
And invention has nothing to do
But improve every night with a song

While honoured with favour by you;
My invention was meant for to please,
That's your humble servant's petition;
And, if you should call here again,
Then I'll give you the second edition.
Rite fol, &c.

They're improving the pledging of goods,
Congreve has invented a rocket,

A signal that's well understood,
Because it can speak to the pocket;
Fifteen per cent. will be saved

By all who are forced to be spouting,
Pawnbrokers the French plan condemn,
And the new speculation they're scouting.
Rite fol, &c.

Our breakfasts are now much improved,
Tea and coffee are grown out of use,
And Hunt's roasted grain so improved,
That we fatten by drinking the juice;
Arts and sciences likewise improve,

We've steamers invented for hatchings,

If hens will but lay us the eggs,

Our steam will soon turn them to chickens.
Rite fol, &c.

They've improved in the making of gas,
For we hear that it sets people laughing;
And they're making a bridge now of chains,
To reach over from Redriff to Wapping;
A German philosopher states

He espied, as he looked at the moon,
A battery all mounted with guns,
And the centinel was a dragoon.

Dur churches increase very fast,

Rite fol, &c.

And we've Methodist chapels afloat, They've improved it for sailors so much

That they pull to their prayers in a boat; Our prison discipline's improved,

And, to keep wicked people from ill,
If you're tried by the vagrant-act,

You must walk on the new treading-mill.
Rite fol, &c.

They've improved in the making of bread,
For the loaves are all sold by the pound;
And boots are so strangely improved

That there's never a seam to be found;
Cast-iron inventions improve,

My throat wants improvement also, And cast-iron lungs I shall want, Unless you permit me to go.

Rite fol, &c.

THE KINDEST OF LOVERS IS JAMIE, MY LOVE AND MY DEAR.

O'ER highlands and lowlands, to chase the fleet deer,

My bonny braw Jamie will hie;
While chevy ho, chevy, is heard far and near,
As o'er the green mountains they fly.
Yet, though tally ho, huzza, and tantara,
The lord of my heart loves to hear,
The tender, the bravest, the kindest of lovers,
Is Jamie, my love, and my dear.

Though highlands and lowlands may please for a day,

And chasing the stag has its charms,
Can chevy ho, chevy, long keep him away,
When Love hails him back to my arms.

No, no, tally ho, huzza, and tantara,
The lord of my heart loves to hear,

Yet, the tender, the bravest, the kindest of lovers,
Is Jamie, my love, and my dear.

WHAT WOULD THAT WOMAN GIVE WERE HER HUSBAND BUT BLIND?

(Dibdin.)

SHE, who linked by her fate

To a sour churlish mate,

line,

The cold or heat was all as one to Mich.; For lubberly enjoyments he was never known to pine,

Nor in a close engagement to an enemy he'd strike.

SPOKEN.] But sing-no, d-n it, we could not sing the lee-scuppers are drenched, and too many brave fellows have lost the number of their mess, and gone to Davy Jones's locker. Never mindchance of war! we must all slip our cable some time or other, as our chaplain says; so to it we goes-we tip it her as hot as she can sup it!-Another broadside, my boys!-My eyes, what a crash! her mainmast's gone by the board! the lubbers cry peccavi!-we grapple, and tow her into port!-İ mount the main chains for soundings, heaves the lead under the lee bow, catches its dip upon the quarter, and sings out, "By the mark seven."And sing

Ri tol, &c.

SPOKEN.] Well, we goes ashore, and there we sees the beach lined with pretty girls, ready to receive us I spies my Poll among them, with tears in her eyes, upon the look-out for her weatherbeaten Mich. What cheer, my lass! how does the land lay? We rushes into each other's arms. D-me, there's a go! what signifies a parcel of

And to some smart young flatterer dares not be palaver about happiness, and that ere-can any

kind;

Who a look fears to steal

That her flame would reveal,

What would that woman give were her husband but blind?

She, in youth's early bloom,
By a too severe doom,

To decrepid old age whose hard parents have joined,

How blest would she be,

Till Death set her free,

Could she add to his gout that her husband were blind.

In short, we all choose
With our different views;

thing equal a return to the girl we love after a long absence? so we steers into the first grog-shop--the bowl goes round-old Scrape tunes his fiddle in the corner-Poll axes me for that ere old hornpipe what I've danced a thousand times-I consents and off I goes, for the honour of Old England and the dear girl I love. And sing

In childhood you find us beginning to read,

And calling improvement a task.

That then we're most happy we doubt to be truth, And think present sorrows the worst;

Till our teens, ending boyhood, we jump into youth,
And thus endeth chapter the first.

With pleasure the pranks of sixteen we rehearse,
Till woman, that charm against grief,
Makes Cupid from Hymen quote chapter and verse,
And bids us turn o'er a new leaf.
Then married, or happy or unhappy we,
(For wedlock's a lottery reckoned,)
That time flies on feathers, you all must agree,
Since here endeth chapter the second.
Approaching our period, behind us we look,
This or that past mistake to amend;
For who can deny that in life, as a book,
The errata appear at the end?

And now, with good reason, we wisely reflect
On passages slightly o'erpast,

Till finis allows us scarce time to correct
The follies of chapter the last.

shot;

And my name is Squire Arthur O'Bradley, O!Rare Arthur O'Bradley, tight_Arthur O' Bradley, merry Arthur O'Bradley, frolicsome Arthur O'Bradley, tipsy Arthur

O'Bradley, reeling Arthur O'Bradley, wise Arthur O'Bradley, foolish Arthur Ŏ'Bradley, handsome Arthur O'Bradley, dancing Arthur O'Bradley, capering Arthur O'Bradley, wonderful Arthur O'Bradley, 01-0 rare Squire Arthur O'Bradley, O!

He left me a silver spoon, a barrow without a handle,

A lantern like a full moon, that could hold a farthing candle;

He left me an old tom-cat, with walnut-shells to

his hose,

My hen in the forehead is fat, and my bellows they

want a nose;

That I might have a good bed, he left me three curtain-rings;

My thrush, though with fig-dust fed, in April sel

dom sings;

He left me a bacon-rack, a pitcher with but one crack

In my chair a bottom will put, and then mouth will shut;

And my name is Squire Arthur O'Bradley, O! &c. He left me a wooden wedge, besides a milking pail, A piece of an old bee-hive, and a broken threshing

flail,

A dozen of leather buttons tied to a leather string, Two left-handed gloves, and my grandmother's wedding ring,

A chamber-pot as good as ever was made of wood, Frying-pan, rake, and reel, with the spin of a spinning-wheel;

He left me a rusty sword, a piece of a quarter-staff! With several other things, but I have forgot one half,

As the portion of Arthur O'Bradley, O!

And I'm rare Squire Arthur O'Bradley, &c.

ALL IN BROWN;

OR, FAIR CONDITIONS FOR A REGULAR SUPPLY OF MAIDS.

Air-" Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed." (E. J. B. Box.)

O! HAVE you seen my charming fair,
The maid for whom I sigh,
With lovely locks of coal-black hair,
And one sharp piercing eye
?
For if you have, O! tell me pray,
Where I can find my Peg?

Or all my hopes are hopped away
On her fair wooden leg!

When Peg first taught my heart to wish,
What craving joys I felt;

For she that day was crying fish,

And for a maid I dealt!

My maid brought to me nicely drest,
Looked all in brown so neat,

That never man was yet more blest
Than I, my maid to eat!

Now, since that day I ne'er could spy
The piercing eye of Peg,
Though full a mile I could descry

Her charming wooden leg!
Then tell Peg she shall be my wife;
Nay more, her slave I'll be,

If she'll bring home, each day through life,
A fresh young maid for me!'

O! tell her, truly I'm sincere

And chaste; such my desire,
No maid to my embrace is dear,
Till purified by FIRE!

So say, and add, to-day at two,
If she'll be at the Gate,

I'll take of MAID, in POUNDS a few,
But not ONE OUNCE of SKATE!!!

...

THE UNION OF LOVE AND WINE.

A GLEE.

(T. E. Hook.)

BACCHUS and Venus once in heaven

Kept up a clamorous war,

She wondered for what wine was given,
And he what love was for.

He swore love's soft, enerving joys
A foe to wine mprove;
And she, who hea by drink destroys,
Unfitted is for lov

At length, to appease the scolds divine,
A fiat came from Jove,

That love should be the friend of wine,
And wine the friend of love.
Since when all songs for jovial souls

Having nothing, thought divine,
Till stuffed with bottles, Cupid's bowls
And sighs and tears,
And hopes and fears,
High bumpered glasses,
Pretty lasses,

Piercing darts,

And bleeding hearts,

Bacchus, Venus, love, and wine.

« Zurück Weiter »

Books