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 BOATMAN DANCE. OR, GO HOME WID DE GALS IN DE MORNIN I DON'T like a nigger, I'll be dogged if I do, Kase his feet am so big Dat he can't war a shoe. Oh, 'tis a quart at the bottom, An its stan back gals, Kase its all I got. An its dance de boatmen dance. Oh, dance de boatmen dance, Till broad day-light, And go home wid de gals in de Oh, I jump into a boat, But I chuck him in de river, An its dance de boatmen dance, Till broad day-light, An go home wid de gals in de mornin. Oh, I does hate a nigger, And de gals say my gizzard, Dance de boatmen, &c. I can row down de riber, Ob de gals dark eyes. An its dance de boatman dance, &c Dars a gal in Cincinnati, A steamer load o' whiskey, An made de water blue. De ole Ohio staggered, Like a salted water snake, NIAGARA. 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 slave, 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 soar 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; |