Soldier Songs and Love Songs Part 8

MAIDEN.

Where is the Atlantic? I've heard grandfather say He sailed on its huge surge from Holland far away, O take me to the Ocean where the steamer sails, A wonder to the lubbers and terror to the whales.

CAPTAIN.

Lubbers' yarns! My Maiden, trust you what I say, There never was an Ocean--nothing but this Bay, And if you'll be my bride, the whole world we'll explore, In sight of New York Harbor and Staten Island sh.o.r.e.

Luffing to the starboard, tacking o'er the Bay, Thus the married Captain sails his life away.

IT IS TIME TO BEGIN TO CONCLUDE.

Ye Parsons, desirous all sinners to save, And to make each a prig or a prude, If two thousand long years have not made us behave, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Husbands, who wish your sweet mates to grow mum, And whose tongues you have never subdued, If ten years of your reign have not made them grow dumb, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Matrons of men whose brown meerschaum still mars The sweet kiss with tobacco bedewed, After pleading nine years, if they still puff cigars, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Lawyers, who aim to reform all the land, And your statutes forever intrude, If five thousand lost years have not worked as you planned, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Lovers, who sigh for the heart of a maid, And for forty-four years have pursued, If two scores of young years have not taught you your trade, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Doctors, who claim to cure every ill, And so much of mock learning exude, If the _Comma Bacillus_ still laughs at your pill, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Maidens of Fifty who lonely abide, Yet who heartily scout solitude, If Jack with his whiskers is not at your side, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Spaniards, akin to the Mexican mule, And who have not fair Cuba subdued, After three b.l.o.o.d.y years of your miscreant rule, It is time you began to conclude.

We commend to your mind Bill McKinley's big toe In a boot that is rugged and rude, When that boot and that toe give you notice to go, It is time to begin to conclude.

Walk Spanish from Cuba, with Miles at your heel, And by Fitz Hugh the Southron pursued, Or you'll learn from a thrust of American steel That it's time you began to conclude.

And Sigsbee will soon shoot it all very plain Into Blanco's most murderous brood, That the cry from the blood of the Men of the Maine Makes it meet for mere talk to conclude.

MARSHAL NEY'S FAREWELL.

Adieu to France! Land of the Brave, farewell!

Sleep sweetly there, thy sons will watch by thee, High as thy hills their burning blood will swell, To leave thee as they find thee, fair and free.

The nations gaze and tremble at thy spell, A vision of eternal Liberty, Emerging from a swift and b.l.o.o.d.y birth, The terror, wonder, glory of the earth.

Yet, France, farewell! One son may find his grave Beneath thy soil, and leave thee marching still, Napoleon with his millions of the brave, Along the paths of glory, at thy will.

Soldiers, farewell! And when your banners wave Above my bones beside some nameless hill, Stop not the thunder of your glorious tread, To mark me sleeping with th' inglorious dead.

And farewell, Foes! Brave hearts and grand of soul; We fought in fierceness, now in peace we part.

My luckless heart hath ever been the goal Sought by your sabres, but in vain, O Heart!

Welcome to death amid the drum's far roll, Great souls, where I no more will dare your dart.

'Tis best to die where war's bluff banners wave, Swathed in your guerdon, "Bravest of the brave."

Farewell, the storm-voiced Steed! the hero Horse That snuffs the battle's sulphury breath afar; The proudest form, the best compacted force, That hurls the earthquake on the field of war.

No more I'll ride, on his terrific course, That meteor maddened through the lines ajar, While the foe, blanching at the onset, reels Before his breath and thunder of his heels.

Farewell, volcanic din, Olympian brattle, The bursting bomb, the thousand-throated cheer Tartarean roar, the volleyed rifle rattle, The rocket's lightning line of fire and fear.

I sought my fate 'mid foes in brilliant battle, Gorging with souls the hungry atmosphere; I find my fate from one cold coward's command, A dozen bullets, and a friendly hand.

Thus I, once Michael Ney, Marshal of France, And soon a heap of dust, dishonored, sink;-- I, who have vanned the Empire's fierce advance In triple continents of fame to drink, And bore its backward but still levelled lance From Borodino to the icy brink Of Beresina; thence defiance hurled To the linked thunders of th' embattled world.

No bandage bring. Stark-eyed the hero dies.

Do you not know that thus for twenty years I've faced both ball and bullet!--for no prize But weal of France, my country? In man's ears, Yea and before G.o.d's all-beholding eyes, I swear I never wronged her. But Death nears.

Marshal no more, behold a man expire!

So now, make ready! Aim! Dear comrades, fire!

THE LILY LAND OF FRANCE.

With pensive memories We part the Ocean foam, To find 'neath summer skies A country and a home.

O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris! (_Pa-ree_) Farewell to Life's romance!

Welcome the sounding sea!

Soon, soon, our fading forms Recede into the sea, Which, dark with all its storms, Will veil our hearts from thee.

O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris!

Farewell to Life's romance!

Welcome the sounding sea!

In vain, in farther climes, Athwart the sweeping sea, We seek, in other times, The heaven we've lost in thee.

O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris!

Farewell to Life's romance!

Welcome the sounding sea!

THE THREE P'S.

THE PRATIE, THE PIG AND POTEEN.

'Tis daily this baste Will prosade to the fayste, The best that Ould Oireland has seen; The P's are but three, But they're plenty for me,-- The Pratie, the Pig, the Poteen.

The Pratie, in place, Has an iligant face, That my mouth opens wide to let in, But, like Widow Machree, He's so glad to see me, That he laughs himself out of his shkin.