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Men tell the girls, they look best by candle or fire lights;
But they may tell them for their pains, men always look great frights; For, in spite of pencil'd eyebrows, stays, perfume, and washing-ball, Men never look even passable, in any light at all.
Oh, the days, &c.
What think you of the compound of puppy, bear, and ape?—
Men are so metamorphosed, they're scarce in human shape, That, when I hear they're dead, I hope it is no sin
To say, that now they've quit the world, they're better out than in. Oh, the days, &c
OR, GO HOME WID DE GALS IN DE MORNIN
I DON'T like a nigger,
I'll be dogged if I do,
An its stan back gals,
An its dance de boatmen dance.
And go home wid de gals in de mornin.
Oh, I jump into a boat,
Nigger cum into my boat,
But I chuck him in de river,
An go home wid de gals in de
Oh, I does hate a nigger,
Am all white to de chin,
And de gals say my gizzard,
Dance de boatmen, &c.
I can row down de riber,
De darkest night dat shine, Wid a half a dozen corn,
An a bushel ob swine.
An its dance de boatman dance, &o
Dars a gal in Cincinnati,
Tried to gib me de slip, But I hold fast as tar rope By her gum elastic lip. She tried to dislocate it,
But I pull her to my heel, An I tow her down de riber, Like a hoss corpse a keel. Den its dance de boatmen dance, &o
A steamer load o' whiskey,
Like a salted water snake,
ROAR, raging torrent, and thou mighty river,
Dash thy wild waves on the valley below,
From the dark mountains, and shadow for ever
The deep rocky bed where the wide rapids flow.
The green sunny glade and the smoothflowing fountain
Brighten the home of the coward and
But the flood and the forest, the rock and the mountain
Rear on their bosom the free and the brave.
While pours thy broad wave, like a torrent from heaven.
Each son thou shalt rear, in the battle's wild shock,
When the death-speaking blast of the trumpet is given,
Shall charge like thy waters, or stand like thy rock.
Though his roof be the cloud, and the ground be his pillow,
Though he stride the rough mountain, or toss on the foam,
He will strike bold and true, on the field or the billow,
In triumph, Columbia, for God and his home.
MY FATHER LAND.
I HEAR them speak of my father land, And feel like a mountain child, When they tell of the gallant yager band,
And the chamois bounding wild. Of the snow-capp'd hills to heaven that
Where the avalanches fall,
And the chalet's joys when the chase is o'er,
And the Ranz-des-vaches they call. And when the tear would dim my eyes, I raise the Alpin lay;