)fc-'i 
 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022108801 
 
BOOK OF POETRY 
 
 " m 
 
 puttjjinson Jfamilg; 
 
 
 C O N T A I N I N 
 
 SIXTY-SEVEN OF THEIR MOST POPULAR SONGS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 FRANKLIN 1' R I N T I N G HOUSE 
 Ilawley street, cor. FraokliD. 
 
 j' f-^^^X 1 8 ,-) 8 
 
 SGXtjbcQOcbocc:::;., Mil , 
 
THE 
 
 HUTCHINSON FAIILI'S 
 
 BOOK OF POETRY; 
 
 OONTAmiNO 
 
 SIXTY-SEVEN OF THEIR MOST POPULAR SONGS. 
 
 A«5i. ^ ^ tA-^s ciU l*** «Vv <-«3V* /. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 S. CHISM,— FRANKLIN PRINTING HOUSE, 
 
 HAWLEY STBEET, CORNER FRANKLIN. 
 
 1858. 
 
CONTEIVTS. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Paob 
 
 We're with you once again, 
 
 6 
 
 Few Ideas in a few Days 
 
 34 
 
 Cold "Water, . 
 
 6 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs, 
 
 36 
 
 The Millennium, 
 
 . 7 
 
 Springfield Mountains, . 
 
 37 
 
 The New England Fanner, 
 
 8 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill, . 
 
 37 
 
 Bachelor's Lament, 
 
 9 
 
 The Old Granite State, . 
 
 38 
 
 Sweet Alice, or Ben Bolt, 
 
 9 
 
 Carry me Home to Die, . 
 
 40 
 
 The Mountaineer, . 
 
 10 
 
 The Cot where we were Bom, 
 
 41 
 
 Uncle Sam's Farm, 
 
 H 
 
 Calomel, 
 
 41 
 
 The Mountain Echo Song, 
 Little Canoe, or Burman Love 
 
 12 
 
 Crows in a Cornfield, 
 
 42 
 
 r, 13 
 
 Excelsior, .... 
 
 43 
 
 Zekel and Hulda, . 
 
 M 
 
 Westward, Ho ! 
 
 44 
 
 The good old Days of yore, 
 
 U 
 
 A Brother is Dead, . 
 
 45 
 
 "VVhat I live for, 
 
 16 
 
 The Old Farm House, . 
 
 45 
 
 The Wax Work, . 
 
 17 
 
 The Spider and the Fly, . 
 
 46 
 
 " Coming right along," oi 
 
 
 The Seasons, .... 
 
 47 
 
 Right over Wrong, . 
 
 19 
 
 Little Topsy's Song, 
 
 49 
 
 Where shaU the Soul find Rest 
 
 20 
 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 
 
 60 
 
 Man the Life Boat, or Storm 
 
 
 Kind Words can never Die, . 
 
 61 
 
 at Sea, 
 
 21 
 
 True Freedom : How to Gain 
 
 
 Welcome to Jenny Lind, 
 
 21 
 
 it, 
 
 62 
 
 Ho, for California ! . . 
 
 22 
 
 The Modem Belle, . 
 
 63 
 
 If I were a Voice, . 
 
 23 
 
 I'm Going Home, . 
 
 64 
 
 Get oif the Track, . 
 
 24 
 
 Riding in a Stage, . 
 
 56 
 
 My Mother's Bible, 
 
 25 
 
 We've left Again our Moun- 
 
 
 Horticultural Wife, 
 
 26 
 
 tain Home, .... 
 
 66 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine, 
 
 27 
 
 Do a Good Turn when you can 
 
 36 
 
 The Old Farmer's Elegy, 
 
 28 
 
 Oh, had I the Wings of a Dove 
 
 67 
 
 The Good Old Plow, 
 
 29 
 
 'Tis Sweet to be Remembered, 
 
 68 
 
 Recollections of Home, . 
 
 30 
 
 There's Room enough for All, 
 
 58 
 
 There's a Good Time Coming, 
 
 30 
 
 Ridden by the Slave Power, . 
 
 60 
 
 Home of my Boyhood, . 
 
 31 
 
 Jordan, 
 
 61 
 
 The Indian's Lament, 
 
 32 
 
 CaU to Kansas, 
 
 62 
 
 The Old Church Bell, . 
 
 33 
 
 The Merry Yankee Boy, 
 
 64 
 
 The Slave's Appeal, 
 
 34 
 
 Forty Years Ago, . 
 
 65 
 
 Entered, accn^ing to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 
 
 ASA B. HUTCHINSON, 
 
 In ihe Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
SOI&S OF THE HUTCHIISONS 
 
 Wt'n ffiitji "^nu (i)m ^gak 
 
 SOXO OF THE WAKDEKEE. 
 
 ( Published by Oliver Ditson, Washington St., Boston^ 
 
 We're with you once again, kind friends. 
 
 No more our footSteps roam ; 
 Where it began, our journey ends, 
 
 Amid the scenes of home. 
 'So other clime has skies so blue, 
 
 Or streams so broad and clear ; 
 Ajid where are hearts so warm and true 
 
 As those that meet us here i 
 
 Since last, with spirits wild and free, 
 
 We pressed our native strand, 
 We've wandered many miles at sea, 
 
 And many miles on land ; 
 We've seen all nations of the earth, 
 
 Of every hue and tongue. 
 Which taught us how to prize the worth 
 
 Of that from which we sprung. 
 
 Our native land, we turn to you. 
 
 With blessings and with prayer. 
 Where man is brave and woman true. 
 
 And free as mountain air ; 
 ISo other clime has skies so blue, 
 
 Or streams so broad and clear. 
 And where are hearts so warm and true 
 
 As those that meet us here I 
 
tiONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 ^nli Wakt. 
 
 All hail ! ye friends of temperance, 
 
 Who're gathered here to night, sirs, 
 To celebrate the praises of 
 
 Cold water, pure and bright, sirs. 
 
 We welcome you with joyful hearts 
 
 Each generous son and daughter, 
 
 For here's the place of all, to shout 
 
 The praises of cold water. 
 
 Oh I cold water, pure cold water, 
 
 Raise the shout, send it out. 
 Shout for pure cold water. 
 
 Of all the blessed things below 
 
 Of our Creator's giving. 
 Assuaging almost every wo, 
 
 And making life worth living, 
 For old and young, for high and low, 
 
 Tea every son and daughter. 
 There's nothing as a beverage, 
 
 Lilie sparkling pure cold water. 
 Oh ! cold water, &c. 
 
 Oh 1 if you would preserve your health 
 
 And trouble never borrow. 
 Just take the morning shower bath, 
 
 'Twill drive away all sorrow. 
 And then instead of drinking rum, 
 
 As doth the poor besotter ; 
 For health, long life, and happiness. 
 
 Drink nothing but cold water. 
 Oh 1 cold water, <fec. 
 
 Yes, water '11 cure most every ill, 
 
 'Tis proved without assumption , 
 Dyspepsia, gout, and fevers, too, 
 
 And sometimes old consumption. 
 Tour head-aches, side-aches, and heart-achet too. 
 
 Which often cause great slaughter ; 
 Can all be cured by drinking oft 
 
 And bathing in cold water. 
 Oh 1 cold water, Ac 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS0N3. 
 
 Full eighteen hundred years or more — 
 
 These truths have been before ns, 
 And yet have blind delusive cloads 
 
 Seemed madly hovering o'er ua. 
 The lep'rous men of Judea, 
 
 And lame who scarce could totter, 
 Were cured of all their maladies 
 
 In Jordan's healing water. 
 Oh 1 cold water, <fec. 
 
 But great reforms are going on 
 
 'Mong every class and station, 
 And better days are dawning on — 
 
 The rising generation. 
 Though Alcohol has had his day 
 
 And great has been his slaughter 
 He's now retreating in dismay, 
 
 And victory crowns cold water. 
 Oh 1 cold water, Ac 
 
 €^ MiMnlm. 
 
 What do I see ? ah ! look, behold 
 That glorious day by prophets told, 
 Has dawn'd, and now is near ; 
 Methinks, I hear from yonder plain, 
 With shouts of gladness loud proclaim, 
 The Millennium is here. 
 
 See freedom's star that shines so bright. 
 It sheds its rays of truth and light, 
 
 O'er mountain, rock, and sea ; 
 And like the mighty march of mind, 
 Has sought and blest all human kind. 
 
 And set the bondman free. 
 
 No dungeons, chains, or gibbets, here ; 
 No groans of prisoners in despair, 
 
 Are heard to mar the scene : 
 But peace, as once on Bethl'hem's plaii\ 
 By Angels sang, has come again, 
 
 And earth is all serene. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 In that vast crowd, no high, no low, 
 Distinction and complexiona now 
 
 Are passed and known no more. 
 On one broad level see them stand. 
 The millions who compose this band, 
 
 With strains, most glorious, pour. 
 
 The voice of war ia heard no more, 
 The cannon with its deadly roar 
 
 Is hushed in silence now ; 
 All implements of death you see 
 Are changed from war to husbandry, 
 
 The " pruning hook" and plow. 
 
 Salvation to our God proclaim. 
 This is the glorious, peaceful reign. 
 
 The nations now shall know. 
 The kingdoms of this world are given 
 To Christ the Lord of earth and heaven. 
 
 Predicted long ago. 
 
 €jit Mm (fitgliiiii jfamn. 
 
 A life on my native soil, 
 
 A home in a farmer's cot, 
 rU never at labor recoil. 
 
 And ask for no happier lot. 
 Oh, the city hath not a charm, 
 
 With its turmoil, noise and strife. 
 Give me a snug little farm 
 
 With a kind and notable wife. 
 A life on my native soil. 
 Gee up, gee ho, <fec 
 
 On ray native soil I stand, 
 
 'Mid blossoming fields around. 
 While the air is pleasant and bland. 
 
 And the hiUs with cattle abound. 
 Oh, the river is flowing by. 
 
 And the boatman's singing we hear. 
 And the laborers, how they ply, 
 
 W hile echoes send around the good cheet 
 A life on my native soil, 
 Gee up, gee ho, <Stc. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSOi*^ 
 
 How pleasant it is to view 
 
 Whole valleys of ■waving grain. 
 And the husbandmen, jovial crew. 
 
 With sickles prostrating the plaia 
 Oh, the song of my heart shall be, 
 
 While the earth her sweet products shall yield 
 The Ufe of a farmer for me — 
 
 A home in the forest and field 1 
 A life on my native soil, 
 Gee up, gee ho, (fee. 
 
 Returning home at close of day. 
 Who gently chides my long delay, 
 And by my side dehghts to stay ? 
 
 Nobody. 
 
 Who sets for me the easy chair. 
 Sets out the room with neatest care. 
 And lays my sUppers ready there ? 
 Nobody. 
 
 Who regulates the cheerful fire, 
 And piles the blazing fuel higher, 
 And bids me draw my chair still nigher I 
 Nobody. 
 
 When sickness racks my feeble frame, 
 And grief distracts my fevered brain, 
 Who sympathises with my pain ? 
 
 Nobody. 
 
 Then I'm resolved so help me fate, 
 To change at last the single state. 
 And will to Hymen's altar take 
 
 Somebody, 
 
 litttjt S'ra; nr, %m lonlt. 
 
 UDSIO OBiemAL. 
 
 Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, 
 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown ; 
 
 Who blushed with delight when you gave her a smile, 
 And trembled with fear at your frown J 
 1* 
 
10 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Ic the old church-yard, of the valley, Beu Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone, 
 They've fitted a slab of the granite so grey, 
 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 In the old church yard, Ac. 
 
 And don't you remember the cottage, Ben Bolt, 
 
 That stood by the shady old wood. 
 And the button-ball tree with its leafy boughs, 
 
 That nigh to the doorstep stood ? 
 The cottage to ruin hath gone, Ben Bolt, 
 
 And you look for the tree in vain ; 
 Where once the lord of the forest stood. 
 
 Grows the grass and the waving grain. 
 
 In the old church yard, <fec 
 
 Ah ! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim. 
 And the shady nook in the running brook, 
 
 The place where the boys went to swim ? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 And the running brook is dry ; 
 And of all the boys that were schoolmates then 
 
 There's left only you and I. 
 
 In the old church yard, ifec 
 
 €^t Mnnkium. 
 
 BY J. H. WAELAND. 
 
 (By pTmUaion of the proprietor of the copyright, Charles H Keith, 
 Boston.) 
 
 'Tis I am the Mountaineer, 
 
 My kingdom's the greenwood free, 
 My subjects the wild bird and deer. 
 
 My palace the spreading tree ; 
 I climb up the craggy mountain. 
 
 And inhale its balmy airs, 
 I drink at the sparkhng fountain. 
 
 And laugh at the world and its cares. 
 
 For I am the Mountaineer, ha ! ha ' 
 
 My throne is the bleak rock riven. 
 
 Where the Eagle builds her nest ; 
 'Mid the dark cloud tempest driven. 
 
 O'er the mountain's lordly crest. 
 
SOITGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 11 
 
 Let the "World jog on as it may. 
 
 Oh, Where's the home like mine, 
 I can laugh at its cares till I'm gray, 
 
 Under the oak and mountain pine. 
 
 For 'tis I am the Mountaineer, ha ! ha I 
 
 My sceptre's the rifle dearer 
 
 Than fairest bride ever won. 
 Pray what to the heart can be nearer 
 
 Than the voice of the cracking gun. 
 It sings along the echoing crags, 
 
 "With its music wild and free. 
 And we laugh at the world, however it wags. 
 
 My mountain home for me. 
 
 For 'tis I am lie Mountaineer, ha I ha 1 
 
 I hear the anthem grand and deep. 
 
 Which swells o'er my palace high, 
 'Mid the thunder's roll and the tempest's sweep. 
 
 As the bolts around me fly. 
 I laugh at the storms whose ceaseless din, 
 
 Gives the world without no rest. 
 For my heart it is all peace within. 
 
 My home on the mountain crest. 
 
 For 'tis I am the Mountaineer, 
 
 ^urk §im'B /urm. 
 
 [Published hy Q. P. Reed, Boston^ 
 
 Of all the mighty nations in the East or in the "West, 
 The glorious Yankee nation is the greatest and the best ; 
 We have room for aU creation, and our banner is unfurled, 
 With a general invitation to the people of the world, 
 'fiien come along, come along, make no delay. 
 Come from every nation, come from every way ; 
 Our lands they are broad enough, don't feel alarm. 
 For Uncle Sam is rich enough to give us aU a farm. 
 
 St. Lawrence is our Northern line, far's her waters flow, 
 And the Rio Grande our Southern bound, way down in Mexico; 
 "While fi-om the Atlantic ocean, where the sun begins to dawn. 
 Well cross the Kocky Mountains far away to Oregoii. 
 Then come along, &e. 
 
12 SONGS OF THE HUTOHINSONS. 
 
 While the South shall raise the cotton, and the West iJbe com and pork, 
 New England manufactures shall do up the finer work ; 
 For the deep and flowing water-falls that course along our hills, 
 Are just the thing for washing sheep and driving cotton miUs. 
 Then come along, &c. 
 
 Our fathers gave us liberty, but little did they dream 
 The grand rpsults to follow in this mighty age of steam ; 
 Our mountains, lakes, and rivers, are now in a blaze of fire. 
 While we send the news by lightning on the Telegraphic wire. 
 Then come along, &c. 
 
 While Europe's in commotion, and her monarchs in a. fi-et 
 We're teaching them a lesson which they never can forget ; 
 And this they fast are learning. Uncle Sam is not a fool. 
 For the people do their voting, and the children go to school. 
 Then come along, <Scc. 
 
 The brave in every nation are joining heart and hand, 
 And flocking to America, the real promised land ; 
 And Uncle Sam stands ready with a child upon each arm. 
 To give them all a welcome to a lot upon his farm. 
 Then come along, &c. 
 
 A welcome, warm and hearty, do we give the sons of toil. 
 To come to the West and settle and labor on Free Soil ; 
 We've room enough and land enough, they needn't feel alarm — 
 1 come to the land of Freedom and vote yourself a farm. 
 Then come along, &c. 
 
 Yes I we're bound to lead the nations, for our motto's " 0o Ahead' 
 And we'll carry out the principles for which our father's bled ; 
 No monopoly of Kings and Queens, but this is the Yankee plan, 
 Free Trade to Emigration and Protection unto maa 
 Then come along, &c. 
 
 Words by E. H. Cogin, Music original. 
 
 The Mountains, the Mountains, 
 A song to the Mountains, 
 
 Where nature's dominion for ever prevails, 
 Where the scream of the Eagle, in solitudes regal. 
 
 Is borne like a clarion-blast on the gales. 
 O the vale rose is sweet in its balm-laden air, 
 But the mountain-wreathed laurel is blooming as fair 
 
 And its delicate hue, in the crystaline dew, 
 Eedeemingly softens the loneliness there. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 13 
 
 The Mountains, the Mountains, 
 Tl>e storm-braving mountains, 
 
 They rise from the Hudson's magnificent tide, 
 i"ar up in the azure-lilie visions of pleasure. 
 
 To oaslj in the day-beam, tlie tempest to bide. 
 Encircling the vale of Wyoming they seem. 
 Like ramparts of emerald adorning a dream ; 
 
 Receding in mist the horizon is kissed, 
 'Till mantled and mingled they fade in its gleam. 
 
 The Mountains, the Mountains, 
 A sigh for the mountains, 
 
 Alone I have roamed through the wilds in tlie mcirb , 
 When my spirit was light as the vapor wliose flight, 
 
 Keveiled all their summits in splendor new born. 
 And now, when the spectres of bliss are no more, 
 And the last of my dreamings perchance may be o'er, 
 
 I sigh for the mountains where gusii the bright founiaias, 
 And where like a child I might gaze and adore. 
 
 Cljf littlB Ceme; nt, 36nrniitii Xmn. 
 
 O, come with me in my little canoe, 
 Where the sea is calm and the sky is blue ; 
 O, come with me, for I long to go, 
 To those isles where the mango apples grow : 
 O, come with me and be my love. 
 For thee tlie jungle depths I'll rove ; 
 I'll gather the honey-comb bright as gold, 
 And chase the elk to his secret hold. 
 I'll chase the antelope o'er the plain. 
 The Tiger's cub I'll bind with a chain, 
 And the wild gazelle, with its silvery feet, 
 I'll give thee for a playmate sweet. 
 
 I'll climb the palm for the Bias' nest. 
 Red peas I'll gather to deck thy breast ; 
 ril pierce the cocoa's cup for its wine, 
 And pass't to thee if thou'lt be mine 
 Then come with me in my little can<ie. 
 While the sea is calm and the sky is blue. 
 For should we linger another day 
 Storms may rise and love decay. 
 I'll chase the antelope, &c. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSON 9. 
 
 BM ml Ittlk. 
 
 BY HOSEa BIGELOW. 
 
 'Zekel crept up quite unbeknovm, 
 And peeked in through the winder, 
 
 And there sot Hulda, eJI alone, 
 With no one nigh to hinder. 
 
 Upon the chimbly crook-necks hung, 
 
 And in amongst them r eaafc o d , v U S * ©• ^ 
 
 The old Queen's arm that grand'thcr Young 
 Brought back from Concord busted. 
 
 The walnut wood shot sparkles out, 
 
 Towards the putyest, (bless her,) 
 And htfc fires danced all about 
 
 The china on the dresser. 
 
 The veiy room, cause she was in. 
 Looked warm from floor to ceilin, 
 
 And she looked full as rosy agin, 
 As the apples she was pealiu'. 
 
 She heard a foot, and knowed it too, 
 
 A raspin' on the scraper. 
 All ways to once her feelings flew, 
 
 Like sparks on "burnt up paper. 
 
 He kinder loitered on the mat, -' 
 
 Some doubtful of the -signal, -^ A ?i K I S 
 His heart kept going pity-pat, 
 
 But her's went pity-Zekel. 
 
 A SONG OF HOME. 
 
 Original. Published by 0. P. Reed, Boston. 
 
 How my heart is in me burning. 
 And my very soul is yearning. 
 As my thoughts go backward, turning 
 To the good old days of yore 
 When my father, and my mother, 
 And each sister dear, and brother, 
 Sat and chatted with each other 
 Round that good old dttage door. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 15 
 
 Voice and spirit loved to cheer it 
 And the very birds to hear it, 
 Flew around the door, and near it — 
 Near that' good old cottage-door ; 
 And each sister dear, and brother 
 Nestled closed to each other, 
 As our father and our mother 
 Sang their good old songs of yore. 
 
 Then were words of kindness spoken. 
 And each heart renewed the token, 
 Pledging vows not to be broken, 
 Broken never, never more. 
 And though DOW asunder driven, 
 With the ties of childhood riven, 
 Still we cherish pledges given 
 Round that good old cottage door. 
 
 Then no treason drowned our reason ; 
 But each annual summer season 
 Sang we all our happy glees on. 
 And around our cottage door. 
 Blessed thoughts would then come oe'r us. 
 And each heart and voice in chorus, 
 Sang-^f those who'd gone before ua 
 In the good old days of yore. 
 
 Though our days on earth are fleeting, 
 
 And all temporal joys retreating, 
 
 Yet we hope for another meethig — 
 
 Better far tluin days of yore — 
 
 When through heavenly courts ascending. 
 
 And with angel voices blending. 
 
 We shall sing on, without ending. 
 
 At our Heavenly Father's door,— 
 
 Sing the New Song forever more. 
 
16 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 IJilmt 9 linj fnr. 
 
 I live for those who loTe me, 
 
 JFor those who know me true, 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 
 And waits my spirit too ; 
 For the human ties that bind me, 
 For the task by God assigned me. 
 And the bright hopes left behind me. 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 I live to learn their story 
 
 Who suffered for my sake, 
 To emidate their glory. 
 
 And follow in their wake ; 
 Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, 
 The noble of all ages. 
 Whose deeds crown history's pages, 
 
 And Time's great volume make. 
 
 I live to haU that season 
 
 By gifted minds foretold. 
 When men shall rule by reason. 
 
 And not alone by gold ; 
 When, man to man united. 
 And every wrong thing righted, 
 The whole world shall be lighted 
 
 As Eden was of old. 
 
 I live to hold communion 
 
 With all that is divine ; 
 To feel there is a union 
 
 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine ; 
 To profit by affliction. 
 Reap truths fi-om fields of fiction. 
 Grow wiser from conviction. 
 
 And fulfil each grand design. 
 
 I live for those who love me. 
 
 For those who know me true ; 
 For the heaven that smiles above me, 
 
 And waits my spirit too ; 
 For the cause that lacks assistance. 
 For the wrong that needs resistance, 
 For the bright hopes in the distance. 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 17 
 
 Once on a time, some yeara ago, 
 
 Two Yankees from this State, 
 Were travelling on foot, of course, 
 
 A style now out of date ; — 
 And being far away down South, 
 
 It wasn't strange or funny. 
 That they, like other folks, sometimes 
 
 Should be in want of money. 
 
 So ooming to a thriving place, 
 
 They hired a lofty hall. 
 And on the corners of the streets 
 
 Put handbills, great and small, — 
 Telling the people far and near, 
 
 In printed black and white. 
 They'd give a show of wax work 
 
 In the great town hall that night. 
 
 Of course the people thought to see 
 
 A mighty show of figures ; — 
 Of Napoleon, Byron, George the Third, 
 
 And lots of foreign gentlemen ; 
 Of Mary, Queen of Scots, you know. 
 
 And monks in black and white. 
 And heroes, peasants, potentates. 
 
 In wax work brought to light. 
 
 One of our Yankees had, they say, 
 
 No palate to his mouth. 
 And this perhaps the reason was 
 
 Why he was going South ; 
 But be that as it may, you see, 
 
 He' couldn't speak quite plain. 
 But talked — youn* yin ees yote — just eo|. 
 
 And sometimes talked in vain. 
 
 Tlie other was a handsome man. 
 
 Quite pleasant and quite fine. 
 And had a form of finest mould, 
 
 And straight as any line. 
 Indeed he was a handsome man. 
 
 As you will often see, — 
 iluoh more so, sir, than you or you. 
 
 Like Governor Briggs or me. 
 
 • J*own in hla throat. 
 
18 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Tliis handsome man stood at the door, 
 
 To let the people in, 
 AJid the way he took the quarters 
 
 A.nd the shillings was a sin ; 
 And when the hour of show had come, 
 
 He a curtain pulled aside, 
 And our friend without a palate 
 
 Stood in aU his pomp and prida 
 
 And in his brawny hand he held. 
 
 A pound or two or more, 
 Of good shoemakers' wax, which he 
 
 Had made sometime before ; 
 He then began to worJc it 1 
 
 And his audience thus addressed ; — 
 And while they looked and listened. 
 
 Let their great surprise be guessed. 
 
 Said he, " my friends, how some folks chest 
 
 I never could conceive, 
 But this is the real wax work, 
 
 For I stoop not to deceive ; 
 This is the reaZ wax worJc, 
 
 For your quai-ters and your twelves ; 
 Ladies and gentlemen, please walk up 
 
 And examine for yourselves." 
 
 But when the people saw the joke, 
 
 With anger they turned pale, — 
 Hammer and tongs, they came at him 
 
 To ride him on a rail ; 
 But he had an open window 
 
 And a ladder to the ground, 
 And just as he went out of sight. 
 
 He turned himself around — 
 
 And holding up the wax to view, 
 
 Said with a saucy grin, — 
 " My friends there's no deception. 
 
 For I scorn to take you in ; 
 This is the eeai< wax-work. 
 
 For your quarters and your twelves ; 
 Ladies and gentlemen, please walk upi 
 
 And examine for yourselves." 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS0N3. 19 
 
 "Cnraing Eiglit Stlnug;" nr Eigjit (Dm Wm^. 
 
 Behold the Day of Promise comes, — full of inspiration — 
 
 The blessed day by prophets sung, — for the healing of the nations. 
 
 Old midnight errors flee away : they soon •will all be gone ; 
 
 While Heavenly angels seem to say, " the good time" "a coming on, 
 
 Coming right along. 
 Coming right along, 
 
 The blessed day of promise is coming right along. 
 
 Already in the golden east the glorious light is dawning, 
 And watchmen from the mountain-tops, can see the blessed morning. 
 O'er all the land their voices ring, wliile yet the world is napping,— 
 'Till e'en the sluggards begin to spring, as they hear the spirits " rap- 
 ping,"- 
 
 Coming right along, — 
 ! I hear the angel voices — " "We're coming right along." 
 
 The captive now begins to rise and burst his chain.s asunder. 
 While Politicians stand aghast, in anxious fear and wonder. 
 No longer shall the bondman sigh beneath the galling fetters, — 
 He sees the Dawn of Freedom nigh, and reads the golden letters, — 
 
 " Coming right along." 
 Behold the Day of Freedom is coming right along 1 
 
 And all the old Distilleries shall perish and burn together, — 
 fhe Brandy, Rum, and Gin, and Beer, and all such, whatsoever. 
 The world begins to feel the fire, and e'en the poor besotter, 
 To save himself from burning up, jumps into the cooling water. 
 
 Coming right along, 
 'Tis coming right along. 
 
 Still higher up the morning beams are spreading in their b.eauty, 
 And men, of every grace, begin to see more clear their duty. 
 They've suffered long in ignorance, — the night was thick and hazy • 
 'But now the cause is understood what made tlie world so crazy, — 
 
 Coming right along, (fee. 
 
 Whence come the wars and fightings dire, among the various nations, 
 But the warring elements in ourselves, false habits and relations. 
 Reforms must all begin at home, reformers can't deny it ; 
 4.nd men must cease from gnawing bones, and take to a simple diet 
 
 Coming right along. 
 
20 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Sweet dawn of Peace, that day will prove, to all the sons of labor ; 
 For every man will have enough, and gladly lend his neighbor. 
 The Earth shall yield abundantly ; nor shall men want for money ; 
 But all shall bask in golden fields flowing with milk and honey. 
 1 'tis coming right along. 
 
 IBjiirB BJinll tjji! iniil M %t± 
 
 Tell me, ye winged winds. 
 
 That round my pathway roar, 
 Do ye not know some spot 
 
 Where mortals weep no more 1 
 Some lone and pleasant dell. 
 
 Some valley in the "West, 
 Where free from toil and pain, 
 
 The weary soul may rest ? 
 The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
 And sighed for pity as it answered — " No 1" 
 
 Tell me, thou mighty deep. 
 
 Whose billows round me play, 
 KnoVst thou some favored spot. 
 
 Some Island far away. 
 Where weary man may find 
 
 The bliss for which he sighs. 
 Where sorrow never lives. 
 
 And Friendship never dies ? 
 The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow. 
 Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer — " No I" 
 
 And thou serenest moon. 
 
 That with such holy face 
 Dost look upon the earth. 
 
 Asleep in night's embrace, 
 Tell me, in all thy round 
 
 Hast thou not seen some spot, 
 Wliere miserable man. 
 
 Might find a happier lot ? 
 Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in wo, 
 And a voice sweet, but sad,, responded — " No 1" 
 
 Tell me, my secret soul, 
 
 Oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, 
 Is there no resting-place. 
 
 From sorrow, sin and death ; 
 
SOXGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 21 
 
 Is there no happy spot, 
 
 Where mortals may be blest, 
 "Where grief may find a balm, 
 
 And weariness a rest ! 
 Faith, Hope, and Love — best boons to mortal given — 
 Waved their bright wings, and whispered — " Yes I in 
 Heaven /" 
 
 Mm \\i till %u\\ nr, Itnrm \A $m, 
 
 Man the life boat, help, or yon ship is lost — 
 Man the Hfe boat^ — see how she's tempest-tossed, 
 No human power, in such an hour. 
 
 This gallant bark can save ; 
 Her mainmast's gone, and dashing on 
 
 She seeks her watery grave. 
 Man the hfe boat See the dreaded signal flieo — 
 Ah I ha ! she's struck, and from the ro(i 
 
 Despairing shouts arise. 
 And one there stands and rings his hands. 
 
 Amidst the tempest wild ; 
 For on the beach he cannot reach. 
 He sees his wife and child. 
 
 lAfe-saving arh, yon doomed bark 
 
 Immortal souls doth bear ; 
 Not gems, nor gold, nor wealth untold. 
 
 But Tnera, brave inen, are there. 
 Speed the life boat ! Speed the hfe boat 1 
 
 0, God ! their efforts crown — 
 She dashes on : the ship is gone 
 
 Full forty fathoms down. 
 
 Wtlumt tn SEiiiiq ITJEit. 
 
 From the snow-clad hills of Sweden, 
 Like a bird of love from Eden, 
 Lo ! she comes with songs of freedom— 
 J enny comes from o'er the sea. 
 
 Though afar from home endearing. 
 Yet her heart no danger feai-ing, 
 For she hears a nation cheering — 
 " Jenny, welcome to the free 1" 
 
22 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Heart to heart, with true deTotion, 
 Kindled with the same emotion, 
 As the tidings cross'd the ocean — 
 " Jenny's coming o'er the sea 1" 
 Soon the ship was near before us ; 
 0, what gladsome thoughts came o'er ua, 
 While ten thousand sang in chorus — 
 " Jenny, welcome to the free 1" 
 
 While the great and honored hear you, 
 Let the poor oppressed be near you, 
 Then will every heart revere you — 
 Jenny, sing for liberty. 
 
 Thou, indeed, art not a stranger 
 To the palace or the manger; 
 Welcome, friend, and fear no danger, 
 " Jenny, welcome to the free." 
 
 In! fnr CttlifDrEial 
 
 A song cmnposed for a hand of overland emigrants, wlu> left Matia 
 chusetts, in the spring of 1849, 
 
 We've formed our band, and are well nwcn'i. 
 To journey afar to the promised land, 
 Where the golden ore is rich in store. 
 On the banks of the Sacramento shore. 
 
 Then, ho I Brothers ho 1 
 
 To California go. 
 There's plenty of gold in the world we're ici\ 
 On the banks of the Sacramento. 
 Heigh 0, and away we go, 
 Digging up the gold In Francisco. 
 
 O ! don't you cry, nor heave a sigh. 
 For we'll all come back again, bye-ccd-bye, 
 Don't breathe a fear, nor shed a tear. 
 But patiently wait for about two year. 
 Then, ho 1 <fec. 
 
 As the gold is ihar, most any whar. 
 And they dig it out with an iron bar, 
 And where 'tis thick, with a spade or pick, 
 They can take out lumps as heavy as brich. 
 Then, ho! &c. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS0N3. 23 
 
 As we explore that distant shore, — 
 "We'll fin our pockets with the shining ore ; 
 And ho\if 'twill sound, as the word goes round, 
 Of our picking up gold by the dozen pound. 
 Then, ho I &a. 
 
 1 the land we'U save, for the bold and brave — 
 
 Have determined there never shall breathe a slava 
 
 Let foes recoil, for the sons of toil 
 
 Shall make California God's Free SofL. 
 
 Then, ho I Brothers, ho ! to California go^ 
 
 No slave shall toil on God's Free Soil, 
 
 On the banks of the Sacramento. 
 
 Heigh 0, and awaj we go, 
 Chanting our songs of Freedom, 0. 
 
 Sf 3 mn 11 %m. 
 
 If I were a voice, a persuasive voice. 
 
 That could travel the wide world through, 
 
 I would fly on the beams of the morning Mgh', 
 
 And speak to men with a gentle might. 
 And tell them to be true. 
 
 I would fly — I would fly o'er land and sea, 
 
 Wherever a h'iman heart might be. 
 
 Telling a tale, or singing a song. 
 
 In praise of the right, in blame of the wrong. 
 If I were a voice, &c. 
 
 If I were a voice, a convincing voice, 
 
 I'd fly on the wings of air ; 
 The homes of sorrow and guilt I'd seek, 
 And calm and truthful words I'd speak, 
 
 To save them fiom despair. 
 I would fly, I would fly o'er the crowded towa 
 And drop, like the beautiful sunlight, down 
 Into the hearts of suffering men. 
 And teach them to look up again. 
 If I were a voice, <fcc. 
 
 If I were a voice, a consoling voice, 
 
 I'd travel with the wind. 
 And whenever I saw the nations torn 
 By warfare, jealousy, spite, or scorn, 
 
 Or hatred of their kind, 
 
24 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 I would fly, I would fly on the thunder ciasli. 
 And into their blinded bosoms fla»h 
 That ray of hope that cheers the mind. 
 And leayea all trace of grief behind. 
 If I were a voice, Ac. 
 
 M nff tjiJ torlt. 
 
 ORIGINAL. 
 
 Words composed and adapted to a slave melody, advocating the emancipation of 
 the slaves, and illustrating the onward progress of the antl-slaverv cause in the 
 United States. 
 
 (Published by Henry Prentiss, Boston) 
 
 Ho I the car emancipation. 
 Rides majestic through our nation, 
 Bearing on its train the story, 
 LiBEETT ! a nation's glory. 
 
 Roll it along ! roll it along ! 
 
 Roll it along ! through the nation, 
 
 Freedom's car. Emancipation. 
 
 Men of various predilections, 
 Frightened, run in all directions, 
 Merchants, Editors, Physicians, 
 Lawyers, Priests, and politicians. 
 
 Get out of the way ! every station, 
 
 Clear the track. Emancipation. 
 
 Let the ministers and churches 
 Leave behind sectarian lurches, 
 Jump on board the car of freedom, 
 Ere it be too late to need them. 
 
 Sound the alarm I pulpits thunder, 
 
 Ere to late you see yom- blunder. 
 
 All true friends of emancipation, 
 Haste to freedom's railway station. 
 Quick into the cars get seated ; 
 All is ready and completed. 
 
 " Put on the steam !" all are crying; 
 
 While the liberty flags are flying. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 25 
 
 Hear the mighty car-wheels humming ; 
 N J w, look out ! the engiue d coming ! 
 Church-aiid-statesmej, hear the thuL.der, 
 Clea.- the track, or you'll fall under. 
 
 Get off the track ! all are singing 
 
 While the " Liberty Bell " is ringing. 
 
 On, triumphant, see them bearing, 
 
 Through sectarian rubbish tearing ; 
 
 The bell, and whistle, and the steaming. 
 
 Startle thousands from their di"eaming. 
 
 Look out for the cars! while tlie bi'Il riis;?. 
 Ere the sound your funeral knell rings. 
 
 See the people run to meet us ! 
 At the stations thousands greet us ; 
 All take seats with exultation, 
 In the car. Emancipation. 
 
 Huzza 1 huzza! Emancipation, 
 
 Soon will bless our happy nation. 
 
 Br CONSENT OF THE ADTHOE, G. r. MOREIS, Kiii^ 
 
 This book is all thaf 3 left me now. 
 
 Tears will unbidden start ; 
 With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 
 
 I press it to my heart. 
 
 Fa- ma!?jr g'enerfiionB past, 
 
 Here is our falnily tree ; 
 My mother's hands this bible cL'\sp'd, 
 
 She dying gave it me. 
 
 My father read this holy book. 
 
 To brothers, sisters, dear ; 
 How calm was my poor mother's Im k, 
 
 Who learned God's word to hear. 
 
 Her angel face, I see it yet, 
 
 What vivid memories come ; 
 Again that little group is met, 
 
 Within the halls of homa 
 
 Ah, well do I remember those. 
 Whose names these records bear ; 
 
 Who round the hearthstone used tn cioaa. 
 After the evening prayer. 
 2 
 
26 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS0N3. 
 
 And speak of what those pages said, 
 In tones my heart would thrill ; 
 
 Though they are with the silent dead, 
 Here are they living still. 
 
 Thou truest friend man eTer ever knew, 
 Thy constancy I've tried , 
 
 When aU were false I found thee true. 
 My counsellor and guide. 
 
 The mines of earth no treasure give, 
 That could this volume buy : 
 
 In teaching me the way to live, 
 It taught me how to die. 
 
 Inrtirultttriil Wilt 
 
 WalTTKN BY A CELEEaATED ENGLISH GAEDENBIl, AKTEE DI3APP0IWI' 
 MEKT IN LOVE. 
 
 She's my myrtle, my geranium, 
 My sunflower, my sweet marjorum ; 
 My honeysuckle, my tulip, my violet ; 
 My hollyhock, my dahlia, my mignionet. 
 
 Ho, ho 1 she's a fickle wild rose, 
 
 A damask, a cabbage, a China rose. 
 
 She's my snowdrop, ray ranuncumi. 
 My hyacinth, my giUifiower, my polyanthus, 
 My hearts-ease, my pink, my water-lily ; 
 My buttercup my daisie, my daffydowndilly 
 Ho, ho 1 &c. 
 
 'We have grown up together, like young apple trees 
 And clung to each other Uke double sweet peas ; 
 Now they're going to trim her, and plant her in a pot, 
 And I am left to wither, neglected and forgot. 
 Ho, ho ! Ac. 
 
 I am like a scarlet-runner that has lost its stick ; 
 Or a cherry that is left for the dickey birds to pick 
 like a watering-pot I weep ; like a pavior I'U sigh : 
 Like a mushroom I'll wither ; Uke a cucumber I'll die. 
 Ho, ho! &e. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCH [NSONS. 1 
 
 I am like a bumble-bee, that don't know 'wheie to Bcttla, 
 And she is a dandelion, and a stinging nettle : 
 My heart's like a beet root, choked with chickweed ; 
 My head is like a pumpkin running off to seed. 
 Ho, ho ! (fee. 
 
 I'm a great mind to make myself a folodese, 
 
 And finish all my woes on the branch of a tree. 
 
 I'd do it in a minute, if I thouglit 'twould make her cry; 
 
 But, oh I slie'd laugh to see me hanging up to dry I 
 
 Ho, ho ! who would suppose 
 
 I'd suffer so much from that fickle wild rose. 
 
 36iEgEE no tjiE f\l)m. 
 
 (music OEIGINAL WOKDS BT HON. MES. NOETON.) 
 
 A soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers ; 
 
 There was lack of woman's nm'sing, there was dearth of woman's tears 
 
 But a comrade stood before him, while his life-blood ebb'd awa\ , 
 
 And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might eay. 
 
 The dying soldier "faltered, as he took his comrade's hand. 
 
 And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land : 
 
 Take a message and a token to some distant friend of mine — 
 
 For I was born at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 Tell tny brothers and conspanioiig, when they-meet and~crow(rafonnJ, 
 To hear my mournfu'l story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, 
 That we fouglit the battle bravely, and, wlien the day was done, 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun ; 
 And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars — 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars— 
 But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, 
 A nd one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age. 
 
 And I was but a truant bird, that thouglit my home a cage ; 
 
 But my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, 
 
 IMy heart leaped forth, to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild 
 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 
 
 I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword ; 
 
 And, with boyish love, I hung it where the bright fir » used to shine. 
 
 On the cottage wall, at Bingen, sweet Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
28 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping liead, 
 When the troops are marching home again, with light and galUnt trcfid. 
 But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. 
 For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die 1 
 Tell her to hang the old sword in its place, my fa thole's sword and mine, 
 For the honor of old Bingen, dear Bingen on the Eliine. 
 
 There's another — not a sister — in the happy days gone by. 
 
 You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; 
 
 Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, 
 
 Oh, friend 1 1 fear the lightest heart makes sometime heaviest 
 
 mourning. 
 Tell her, the last night of my life, that ere this moon be risen, 
 My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison — 
 I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine, 
 But we'll meet no more at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 €jiE (Dl^ damn's (Elsgif. 
 
 WORDS BY JOSIAH D. CANNING. 
 
 On a green grassy knoll, by the banks of the brook. 
 That so long and so often has watered his flock, 
 The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep. 
 While the waters a low lapsing lullaby keep. 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his last graiOj 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 ■• I'.Vli'tree that witn ..'a^,^- :■-■'.— --^ ii.c air, 
 So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fiiir. 
 By his own hand was planted, and well did he say, 
 It would live when its planter had mouldered away. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, <tc. 
 
 There's the well that he dug, with its waters so cold, 
 With its wet dripping bucket, so mossy and old. 
 No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn, 
 For " the pitcher is broken,"— the old man is gone. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, <tc. 
 
 •Twas a gloom-giving day when the old farmer died. 
 The stout-hearted mourned — th' affectionate cried ; 
 And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend, 
 F'lr they all lost a brother, a man. and a friend. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, Ac. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 29 
 
 For upright and honest the old farmer was. 
 His God he revered — he respected the laws ; 
 Though fameless he lived, he has gone where hia worth 
 Will outsliine like pure gold all the dross of this earth. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, &a. 
 
 Music original — Published by George P. Meid, Boston 
 
 Let them sing who may of the battle fray, 
 
 And the deeds that are long since past. 
 Let them chant in praise of the Tar, whose days 
 
 Are spent on the ocean vast. 
 I would render to these all the worship you please, 
 
 I would honor them even now, 
 But I'd give far more, from my heart's full core. 
 
 To the cause of the good old plow. 
 
 Let them laud the notes that in music floats 
 
 Through the bright and the glittering hall. 
 While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright carl 
 
 Round the shoulders of beauty fall : 
 Yet dearer to me is the song from the tree, 
 
 And the rich and the blossoming bough. 
 these are the sweets which the rustic greets. 
 
 As he follows the good old plow. 
 
 Full many there be whom we daily see, 
 
 With a selfish and hollow pride, 
 Whom the plowman's lot in bis simple cot. 
 
 With a scornful look deride. 
 Yet I'd rather take aye a hearty shake 
 
 From his hand than to wealth I'd bow ; 
 For the honest grasp of that hand's rough clasp 
 
 Has stood by the good old plow. 
 
 All honor be then to those grey old men, 
 
 When at last they are bowed with toil, 
 Tlieir warfare then o'er, why they battle no more, 
 
 For they've conquered the stubborn soil : 
 And the chaplet each wears are his silvery hairs. 
 
 And ne'er shall the victor's crown. 
 With a laurel crown to the grave go down 
 
 Like the sons of the good old plow. 
 
50 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 EtrnllKtinus cf lniro. 
 
 jnjSIO COMPOSED AND EESPECTFDLLT DEDICATED TO MISS ELLEN EOQERa. 
 
 (^Published by Oliver Ditson, Boston.) 
 
 Ah, why from our own native home did we part ? 
 With its mountains and valleys so dear to each heart ; 
 Ah, why did we leave the enjoyments of home, 
 O'er the wide waste of waters strangers to roam. 
 
 For oft have we roamed in a far distant clime, 
 And have been in the land of the orange and lime, 
 And our footsteps are printed on many a shore, 
 Where the sea loudly brealis with a deep sullen roar. 
 
 New England ! thou land of the brave and the free, 
 Our country and home, we are looking to thee, 
 And we've long'd for the day when again we shall stand 
 On thy rude sandy soil, but our own native land. 
 
 Words by Mackay. Music by Hutchinson. Published by 0. Oilison, 
 of Boston, 
 
 There's a good time coming boys, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 There's a good time coming boys. 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 We may not live to see the day. 
 But earth shall glisten in (he ray. 
 Of the good time coming ; 
 Cannon balls may aid the truth, 
 
 But thought's a weapon stronger ; 
 We'll win our battle by its aid, 
 Wait a little longer. 
 Oh, there's a good time, *te. 
 
 There's a good time coming boys, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 The pen shall supersede the swoi-d. 
 And right, not might shall be the lord, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 31 
 
 "Worth not birth shall rule mankind, 
 
 And be acknowledged stronger, 
 The proper impulse has been given, 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 Oh, there's a good time, Ac. 
 
 There's a good time coming boys, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 Hateful rivalries of creed, 
 Shall not make tlieir martyrs bleed, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride. 
 
 And flourish all the stronger; 
 And Charity shall trim her lamp, 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Oh, there's a good time, &c 
 
 There's a good time coming boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity. 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Nations shall not quarrel then. 
 
 To prove which is the stronger; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake, 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Oh, there's a good time, (fee 
 
 O, home of ray boyhood, my own country home, 
 I love it the better wherever I roam — 
 Tlie lure of proud cities, the wealth of the main. 
 Hath never a charm like my own native plain, 
 There waved the old elms, on the cottage lined street, 
 There warbled the birds from their woodl.ind retreat ; 
 The roar of the river, the forest crowned hilla ; 
 Tlie star-light that glistened, they dwell with me stiU. 
 O, home of my boyhood, &c. 
 
 I've wandered for years through the cold-hearted world, 
 I've rode every sea where a sail is unfiuled ; 
 I've met with the great and the noble of earth, 
 But never forgotten tlie home of my birth. 
 
32 iSONGS or THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 The laugh of my sister, my brother's high glee, 
 Are echoing round me wherever I be ; 
 The thousand briglit glances from young maidens' eyei. 
 Are stars in my heaven when grief-clouds ariae. 
 0, home of my boyhood, (fee. 
 
 The voice of my father, with deep manly tone, 
 Thei-e's music about it no other hath known ; 
 The smile of my mother, that love-lighted brow : 
 0, mother, dear mother, they dwell with me now. 
 I love them, I love them, the days of the past. 
 And nothing shall bribe me from keeping them fas.t 
 O, home of my boyhood, my own country home, 
 I love it the better wherever I roam. 
 0, home of my boyhood, &c. 
 
 Glide on, my hght canoe, glide on, 
 
 The morning breeze is free ; 
 I'll guide thee far, far out upon 
 
 The wide and troubled sea. 
 Howl on ye blasts, with all your might, 
 Hide, hide thyself thou orb of light, 
 Roll on, ye mountain billows, roll, 
 The wonders of the deep unfold. 
 
 Glide on, and bear me from the sight 
 
 Of yonder shady vale ; 
 For oh, there is a withering bUght 
 
 Spread o'er my native isle. 
 The whites have driven us from our home, 
 And the waves we're forced to roam ; 
 There's none to pity, none to save 
 The red man from the ocean grave. 
 
 Our evening dance is seen no more, 
 
 Its sound has ceased to flow ; 
 And each one sings a mournful dirge, 
 
 In accents y:id and slow. 
 The whites have swept our friends away, 
 Beneath the turf our fathers lay ; 
 We soon must join them in death's sleep. 
 And leave om* homes to momii and weep. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 33 
 
 Shall I, the bravest of the chiefj, 
 
 Da this isle make my bed ; 
 No I no ! the white's polluted feet, 
 
 Shall ne'er tread o'er my head. 
 I've buried my hatchet 'neatli the turf, 
 But I will rest beneath the surf, 
 The foaming billows shall be my giave, 
 For I'll not die the white man's slave. 
 
 €^ (Dli (^jmrrl; %t\l 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my old grey turret high. 
 And many a different theme I've sung, 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 I've pealed the chant of a wedding morn, 
 
 Ere night I have sadly toll'd. 
 To say that the bride was coming, love-lorn. 
 
 To sleep in the churchyard mould 1 
 Ding, dong, my ceaseless song, 
 Merry and sad, but never long. 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my ancient turret high. 
 And many a different theme I've sung, 
 
 As the time went stealing by. 
 I've swell'd the joy of a country's pride. 
 
 For a victory, far off won ; 
 Then changed to grief, for the brave that died. 
 
 Ere my mirth had well begun ! 
 Ding, dong, &c. &c. 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my crumbling turret high ; 
 *Tis time my own death-song were sung. 
 
 And with truth, before I die ! 
 ^ never could love the theme they gave 
 
 My tyrannised tongue to tell : 
 Qne moment for cradle, the next for grave- — 
 
 ^'hey've worn out the old church bell. 
 I^ing, dong, my changeful song. 
 Farewell now, and farewell long. 
 
84 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 €\)t IIhue's Sljiptiil. 
 
 ■WOEUS OHIGINAL. 
 
 Over tlie mountain, and over the moor, 
 
 Comes the sad wailing of many a poor slave ; 
 The father, the mother, and children are poor, 
 
 And they grieve for the day their freedom to have. 
 Pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity, 
 
 Cold is the world to the cries of God's poor, 
 Give us our freedom, ye friends of equality. 
 
 Give us our rights, for we ask nothing more. 
 
 Call us not indolent, vile and degraded. 
 
 White men have robbed us of all we hold dear; 
 
 Parents and children, the young and the aged. 
 Are scourged by the lash of the rough overseer. 
 Pity, kind gentlemen, <fec. 
 
 And God in his mercy shall crown your endeavors, 
 The glory of heaven shall be your reward ; 
 
 The promise of Jesus to you shall be given, 
 " Enter, ye faitliful, the joy of our Lord." 
 Then pity, kind gentlemen, &c 
 
 /ra $hm m a fern Mp. 
 
 We pitch our tents on the old camp ground, 
 
 Few days, few days. 
 And give old-Slavery another round ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 Old Slavery's a liar and conjurer too, 
 
 Pew days, few days, 
 He'll conjure me, and he'll conjure you ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 We have a foe down yonder. 
 
 Few days, few days. 
 We have a foe down yonder ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 
 We've fought the old monster about twelve years, 
 
 Twelve years, twelve years. 
 
 And we'll give him Jessie when we catch him by the ears : 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 35 
 
 Make Kansas free, aud fence him in, 
 
 For a few days, few days, 
 He'll die of the disease of original sin ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 We'll have a free State yonder. 
 
 In a few days ! 
 
 They've put on a load that the north can't draw, 
 
 But a few days, few days, 
 And we'll break the infernal fugitive law ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 We'll shake ftom his tail full many a rattle. 
 
 In a few days, few days ; 
 If they vote for their slaves, we'll vote for our cattle ; 
 
 On, freemen, oii ! 
 We'll have our rights down yonder. 
 
 In a few days ! 
 
 There was a man, whose name was Brooks, 
 
 A few days, few days. 
 But he don't want to know how Canada looks ; 
 
 Hvirrah for the free ! 
 He was asked to go, but was taken lame 
 
 In a few days, few days ; 
 He thought 'twau't best to try such a game ; 
 
 Hurrah for the north ! 
 We'll have a north up yonder. 
 
 In a few days ! 
 
 Old Toombs' coming north to have a drill. 
 
 In a few days, few days. 
 And muster his slaves on Bunker Hill. 
 Hark from the toombs, a doleful sound ; 
 He'U have to come in a very few years. 
 
 Few years, few years ! 
 Or forty thousand bayonets will bristle round his ears ; 
 
 Hurrah for liberty ! 
 We'll have a north up yonder ; 
 
 On, freemen, on ! 
 Onward, onward ! your country to save ; 
 Onward, onward, onward, ye brave ! 
 
86 
 
 S^NSS OF THE HUTCH1NS0K8. 
 
 i§l}t fotilp nf ligjjB. 
 
 "Drowned, drowned." — Hamlet. 
 
 WOEDS BT THE LATE THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 One more unfortunate 
 M'eary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death. 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care ; 
 ii'ashioned so slenderly. 
 Young and so fail". 
 
 Look at her gamients. 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing ; 
 Take her up instantly. 
 Loving not loathing. 
 
 Touch her not scornfully, 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 Gently and humanly ; 
 Not of the stains of her. 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Loop up her tresses, 
 Escaped from the comb, 
 Her fair auburn tresses, 
 "While wonderment guesses 
 "Where was her home 3 
 
 "Who was her father ? 
 "Who was her mother ? 
 Had she a sister ? 
 Or had she a brother f 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 "Y"et than all other ? 
 
 Alas 1 for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ; 
 Oh 1 it was pitiful, 
 Near a whole city f uU, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 The bleak winds of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver 
 But not the dark arch. 
 Or the black flowing river ; 
 Mad from Ufe's history, 
 Glad to death's mystery 
 Swift to be hurled. 
 Any where, any where. 
 Out of the world. 
 
 In she plunged boldly 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran 1 
 Over the brink of it. 
 Picture it, think of it, 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it. 
 Then, if you can. 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care. 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young and so fair. 
 Owmng her weakness, 
 Her evil behavior ; 
 And leaving, with meeknes* 
 Her sins to her Savior. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHLNSONS. 37 
 
 IpriEgfirli 3Kimntiiins. 
 
 (As mmg in the old fashioned Conthiental style) 
 
 On Springfield monntains there did dwell 
 A comely youth, I loVd full well. 
 Ki tu di na, <ta 
 
 One Monday momin' he did go, 
 Down in the mead-er for to mow. 
 Ki tu di na, &c 
 
 He scarce had mo-wed half the field, 
 When a pesky sarpini bit his heel. 
 Gi tu di na, <&& 
 
 He took his scythe, and with a blow, 
 He laid the pesky sarpint low. 
 Ei tu di na, &c 
 
 He took the sarpint in his hand, 
 And straightway went to Mollt Blanb. 
 Ei tu di na, Ac. 
 
 " I Molly I Molly 1 here you see. 
 The pesky sarpint what bit me." 
 Ki tu di na, &c 
 
 He lay upon his dying bed. 
 
 His eye was growing dim, 
 When, -with a feeble voice, he called 
 
 His weeping son to him. 
 " Weep not, my boy," the veteran said ; 
 
 " I bow to Heaven's high wiU ; 
 But quickly from yon antlers bring 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill." 
 
 The sword was brought ; the soldier's eye 
 
 Lit with a sudden flame ; 
 And, as he grasped the ancient blade, 
 
 lie murmured Warren's name ; 
 
38 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Then said, " My boy, 1 leave you gold ; 
 
 But what is richer still, 
 I leave you — mark me, mark me, now — 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 " 'Twas on that dread, immortal day, 
 
 I dared the Briton's band ; 
 A captain raised this blade on me : 
 
 I tore it from his hand. 
 And while the glorious battle raged, 
 
 It lightened freedom's will ; 
 Por, boy, the God of freedom blessed 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 " O, keep this sword," his accents broke, — 
 
 A smile, and he was dead. 
 But his wrinlded hand still grasped the blade 
 
 Upon that dying bed. 
 The son remains ; the sword remains, 
 
 Its glory growing still ; 
 And twenty millions bless the sire, 
 
 And sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 A FAMILY BONG OF THE HDT0HINS0N8. 
 
 Ho ! we've come from the mountains, 
 Come again from the mountains. 
 We've come down from the mountains. 
 
 Of the old Granite State. 
 We're a band of brothers. 
 We're a band of brothers, 
 We're a band of brothers. 
 And we live among the hills; 
 With a band of music, 
 With a band of music. 
 With a band of music. 
 We are passing round the worli 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 39 
 
 Our dear father's gone before us, 
 And hath joined the heavenly chorus, 
 Yet his spirit hovers o'er m, 
 As we sing the faroitj song. 
 Oft he comes to hear us, 
 And his love doth cheer us, 
 Tes, 'tis ever near us, 
 Wlien we battle against the ■wrong. 
 
 We have four other brothers. 
 And two sisters, and aged mother ; 
 Some at home near each other, 
 Some are wandering far away, 
 
 TV ith our present number. 
 There are tlurteea in the tribe ; 
 
 'Tis tlie tribe of Jesse, 
 And our several names we sing. 
 
 David, Noah, Andrew, Zepha, 
 Caleb, Joshua, and Jesse, 
 Judson, Rhoda, John and Asa, 
 And Abby are our names. 
 
 We're the sons of Maiy, 
 
 Of the tribe of Jesse, 
 
 And we now address ye, 
 
 With our native mountain song. 
 
 Liberty is our motto. 
 And we'U eing as freemen ought to, 
 Till it rings o'er glen and grotto. 
 From the old Granite State. 
 
 " Men should love each other, 
 
 Nor let hatred smother, 
 
 EvEfiY man's a beothee. 
 
 And cue countet is the woeld 1" 
 
 And we love the cause of Temperance 
 
 As we did in days of yore ; 
 We are all Tee-totlers, 
 
 And determined to keep the pledge. 
 Let us then be up and doing. 
 And our duties brave pursuing, 
 Ever friendship kind renewing 
 As we travel on our way. 
 Truth is plain before us, 
 Then let's sing in chorus. 
 While the heavens o'er us 
 Kebound the loud huzza. 
 Huzza I huzza 1 huzza 1 
 
40 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 £mr{ mi "Mmi k Mt. 
 
 O, carry me back to my childhood's home, 
 
 Where the ocean's surges roar, 
 Where the billows dash on a rock-bound coast, 
 
 And moan forevermore. 
 I'm pining away in a stranger's land. 
 Beneath a stranger's eye. 
 O, carry me home, 
 O, carry me home, 
 O, cany me home to die ! 
 
 I sigh in vain for my native hills ; 
 
 Their sweet and balmy air 
 Would waft away from my youthful brow 
 
 Each trace of gloomy care. 
 I sigh to breathe the air of home, 
 To gaze on its starry sky. 
 O, carry me home, 
 O, carrj' me home, 
 O, carry me home to die ! 
 
 I long to see my mother again. 
 
 And hear her sweetly say, 
 " Come, weary dove, here is thy home ; 
 
 Then fold thy wings and stay." 
 'Twould ease my pain to hear her voice 
 When death had darkened my eye. 
 O, carry me home, 
 O, carry me home, 
 0, carry me home to die ! 
 
 Then let me rest in a peaceful grave 
 
 Beside the loved and dead ; 
 For the quiet earth is the only place 
 
 To rest my weary head. 
 I would calmly sleep, if you'd bury me there. 
 Beneath New England sky. 
 O, caiTy me home, 
 0, carry me home, 
 0, carry me home to die ! 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 41 
 
 €)^ Cnt W^t Wt Wm %m, 
 
 (Set to music mid published hy Firth, Jffall & Fond, No. 1 Fra>ihli% 
 Bquare, New York.) 
 
 "We stood upon the mountain height. 
 
 And viewed the valleys o'er ; 
 Tlie sun's last ray, Tvith mellow light, 
 
 Illum'd the distant shore ; 
 We gazed with rapture on the scene 
 
 Where first in youth's bright mom, 
 We play'd where near us stood serene 
 
 The cot where we were born. 
 
 'Twas there that first a mother's smile 
 
 Lit up our hearts with joy ; 
 That smile can yet our cares beguile, 
 
 As when a prattling boy ; 
 Though changes many we have seen. 
 
 Since childhood's sunny mom, 
 Tet deep in memory still has been 
 
 The cot where we were bora. 
 
 never till the stream of life 
 
 Shall cease to ebb and flow. 
 And earthly sorrow with its strife 
 
 These hearts shall cease to know : 
 Can we forget the spot so dear, 
 
 As that we sometimes mourn, 
 Beside the brook which rurw so clear, 
 
 The cot where we were bom. 
 
 (Rei to mrmc and published by Firth, Hall & Pond, No. I Franklin 
 Square, New York.) 
 
 Physicians of the highest rank. 
 To pay their fees we need a bank. 
 Combine all wisdom, art and skill. 
 Science and sense in Calomel. 
 
 When Mr. A. or B. is sick. 
 
 Go call the doctor, and be quick ; 
 
 The doctor comes with much good will, 
 
 But ne'er forge's his Calomel. 
 
42 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS0N3. 
 
 He takes the patient by the hand, 
 And compliments him as his friend ; 
 He sits awhile his pulse to feel, 
 And then takes out his Calomel. 
 
 Then turning to the patient's wife, 
 Have you clean paper, spoon and knife f 
 1 think your husband would do well, 
 To take a dose of Calomel. 
 He then deals out the precious grain — 
 This, ma'am, I'm sure will ease his pain ; 
 Once in three hours at toll of bell. 
 Give him a dose of Calomel. 
 
 The man grows worse quite fast indeed, 
 Go call the doctor, ride with speed : 
 The doctor comes hke post with mail, 
 Doubling his dose of Calomel. 
 
 The man in death begins to groan, 
 The fatal job for him is done ; 
 He dies, alas ! but sure to tell, 
 A sacrifice to Calomel. 
 
 And when I must resign my breath. 
 Pray let me die a natural death, 
 And bid the world a long farewell. 
 Without one dose of Calomel. 
 
 i>xm% in a d^nrafiEli 
 
 See yonder cornfield where waves the ripening grain. 
 The feathered race alluring, who flock the prize to gain. 
 Now careless hopping, flying, a young crow light and gay, 
 So careless, light and gay he hops, so careless, light and gay 
 Now cautious, peeping, prying, two old crows sage and gray, 
 A man and gun espying, with timely warning say. 
 Don't go there 1 don't go there 1 why not ! why not ? why not t 
 You'll be shot 1 you'll be shot I you'll be shot I you'll be shot, oh . 
 We told you so 1 we told you so I we told you so I 
 Caw I caw 1 caw ! says the scout, look out 1 look out 1 
 See he's loading his gun again, we smell powder, my lads. 
 We're not to be had, 'tis all but labor in vain, 
 AU, all in vam, you try old birds to catch with chafl:", 
 We're out of yo u: shot, you stupid old sot, and at you and yom's 
 We laugh, caw ! caw I caw 1 
 
oO>t*S OF THE HDTCHINSOHS. 43 
 
 i£mkm. 
 
 BY OO-BEST OF THE AUTHOS, H. "W. LONGPELLOW. 
 
 rhls poem represents the continiied aspirations of Genius. Its motto, **Exskl- 
 BioR." (still higher !) to the multitude is a word in an unknown tongue. Disro 
 warding the every day coniTorts of life, the allorements of love, and the warn- 
 ings of experience, it presses for^urd on its solitary path. Even in death ii 
 holds fast its device, and a voice from the air proclaims the progress of the sou] 
 In a higher sphere. 
 
 {Set to m-usie andpublhhed by Firth, Sail d: Pond, N. K) 
 
 The shades of night were &lliag fast, 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with this strange device — Excelsior 1 
 
 TTiq brow was sad, his eye beneath 
 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 
 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 
 The accents of that unknown tongue — ^Excelsioe 1 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
 
 And from his lips escaped a groan— Exceisioe 1 
 
 " Try not the pass T the old man said, 
 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 
 And loud that clarion voice replied — Exczlsiob I 
 
 " 0, stay," the maiden said, " ani rest 
 
 Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 
 But still he answered with a sigh — Exoelsiok I 
 
 " Beware the pine tree's withered branch ! 
 
 Beware the awfiil avalanche !" 
 
 Tliis was the peasant's last good-night ; 
 
 A voice replied fer up the height — Excelsioe ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 
 A voice cried through the startled air — Exoeisio* 
 
44 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 A traveller by the faithful hound 
 
 Half buried in the snow was found, 
 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 
 That banner with the strange defice — Exoelsiob I 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 
 A voice fell like a falling star — Excelsice 1 
 
 ET CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR, 6. P. MOEKIS, ESQ. 
 
 Descriptive of the Journey of a Band of Emigrants acrcss Iht 
 AUeghanies. 
 
 Droop not, brothers, as we go 
 O'er the mountains westward ho 1 
 Under boughs of mistletoe, 
 
 Log huts we'll rear, 
 "While herds of deer and buifalo 
 
 Furnish the cheer. 
 File o'er the mountain, 
 
 Steady, boys ; 
 For game afar 
 
 We have our rifles ready, boys, 
 Ahal ahal 
 Tlirow care to the winds, 
 
 Lilte chaff, boys, ah 1 
 And join in the laugh, boys, 
 
 Eal ha I hal 
 
 Cheer up, brothers, as we go 
 O'er the mountains westward ho ! 
 When we've wood and praii'ie land 
 
 Won by our toil. 
 We'll reign like kings in fairy laud. 
 
 Lords of the soil. 
 Then westward, ho ! in legions, boys. 
 
 Fair freedom's star 
 Points to our sunset regions, lx)ys. 
 
 Aha ! ha ! ha 1 
 
 Throw care, <Ssc. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHIKSONS. 
 
 45 
 
 SI SBrntjitr is Mh 
 
 Hase I what 13 that note, 
 
 So mournful and slow, 
 It sends on the winds 
 
 The tidings of wo ? 
 It sounds like the knell 
 
 Of a spirit that's fled ; 
 It tells us, alas I 
 
 A Brotlier is dead I 
 
 JTes, gone to the grave 
 
 Is he whom we loved ; 
 And lifeless that form, 
 
 That so manfully moved ; 
 The clods of the valley 
 
 Encompass his head. 
 The marble reminds us 
 
 A Brother is dead! 
 
 But marble and urns, 
 They never can tell 
 
 The spot where the soul 
 Is destined to dwell. 
 
 Te spirits of air 
 
 That surrounded his bed, 
 speak ye and tell 
 
 Where the spirit has fled, 
 
 O, say, have ye heard 
 
 In the heavenly throng. 
 That voice once with ours 
 
 Commingled in song ? 
 O, say, to the courts 
 
 Of our God, have ye led 
 The soul that from Earth 
 
 For ever hasfied. 
 
 No voice from the grave, 
 
 No voice from the sky, 
 Discloses the deeds 
 
 That are doing on high. 
 It need not ; Jehovah 
 
 Hath said in His word, 
 That " blessed are they 
 
 Who die in the Lord." 
 
 After many, many, many years. 
 
 How pleasant 'tis to come 
 
 To the old farm-house where we were bom, 
 
 Onr first, our childhood's home. 
 
 To turn away our weary eyes 
 
 From proud, ambitious towers, 
 
 And wander forth upon the hills. 
 
 Among the hills and flowers. 
 
 Oh 1 after many, many years. 
 
 How pleasant 'tis to come 
 
 To the old farm-house where we were bcrn, 
 
 Onr first, our childhood's home. 
 
 It scarce has changed since last I gazed 
 On yonder tranquil scene, 
 And sat beneath the old wick elm 
 That shades the village green. 
 
46 S'/NGS OF THE HUTCHINSON? 
 
 And watched my boat upon the brook 
 As 'twere a regal galley, 
 And sighed not for a joy on earth 
 Beyond the happy valley. 
 
 Oh, Ac. 
 
 Those days I do recall again, 
 That bright and blameles.s joy, 
 I summon to my weary heart 
 The feelings of a boy ; 
 And look on scenes of past delight 
 With all my wonted pleasure ; 
 And feel as though I'd found at last 
 My only earthly treasure. 
 
 Oh, &c. 
 
 WORDS IN PAET OEIGINAL. 
 
 " Will you walk into my parlor !" said the spider to the fly, 
 " 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy ; 
 My floors are carpeted so nice, with velvet soft and clean, 
 So just walk in, my little fly, and I'll treat you like a queen 
 Will you walk in, Mr. Fly ? 
 
 " Why stand you in the cold without exposed to every storm, 
 When in my palace you will find a shelter snug and warm ? 
 Full many a fly I've taken in from out the chilly rain. 
 And such attachments do they form, they ne'er go out again. 
 Will you walk in, Mr. Fly ! 
 
 " I love to gaze upon you now, you charming little fly. 
 Your golden wings and modest brow, your bright and fiashii.g eyi 
 And then you sing your dulcet songs so merrily and so free, 
 1 only wish you'd just hop in, and sing your songs to me. • 
 Will you walk in, Mr. Fly?" 
 
 The silly fly with vaunting pride flew near the palace door. 
 So charmed was he with flattering words he ne'er had heard bofort 
 The spider bade him welcome in with wide extended arms. 
 And patting gently on his back he lavished him with charms. 
 •' Will you walk in, Mr. Fly ?" 
 
SONGS OF THE HFTCHINSOXS. 47 
 
 And then the little silken cords were gently -woye around, 
 
 Uniil within the spider's grasp the little fly was bound : . 
 
 Too late he sought to fly away, but the spider held him fast, 
 
 And then he laughed " Ha 1 ha ! my boy, I've caught you, sir, at last 
 
 "Will you walk out, Mr. Fly V 
 The moral hero is very clear, and warns us to beware, 
 The lying and the flatt'ring tongue, which charms but to ensnare ; 
 And when the tempter falsely says, "Thou shalt not surely die," 
 Just call to mind the little song of the spider and the fly. 
 
 " Will you keep out, Mr. Fly ?"' 
 
 €lft iJESDttS. 
 
 Oh sweet the spring, with its merry ring, 
 When the robins chirp and the blue birds sing ; 
 Their voices clear, make glad the ear. 
 In their welcome songs to the opening year. 
 
 Then ho 1 farmers, ho 1 
 To the fields now with beauty adorning ; 
 
 With hearts all right, and with spirits bright, 
 We'll sing with the birds in the morning. 
 
 Heigh, ! the farmers go. 
 
 Over the fields to plough and sow. 
 Oh, Where's the mind so unrefined. 
 But in the spring glows warm and kind : 
 As every morn is fresh new-bom. 
 And the hills resound with the mellow horn. 
 
 Then ho ! farmers, ho ! 
 To the fields now with beauty adorning, <tc. 
 Ifow full of joy without alloy. 
 How merrily sings the farmer's boy ; 
 His voice he trills like the whip-poor-will's. 
 While the sound comes echoing o'er the hills. 
 
 Then ho 1 farmers, ho, <fec. 
 And Summer too, in its varied hue. 
 With flow'rets sweet our pathway strew ; 
 All nature's gay at the break of day, 
 While the dew perfumes out the new mown hay. 
 
 Then, ho ! farmers, ho ! 
 To your care and labor bestowing. 
 
 With sickle and scythe, does the farmer thrivfl, 
 Then hie, to your reaping and mowing. 
 
 Heigh, ! the farmers go. 
 
 Over the fields to reap, aad mow. 
 
48 SONttS OF THE H UTCHINSONS. 
 
 Oh, blithe the hours 'mid fields of flowers, 
 When the earth's embalmed with summer showera*, 
 'Tie then the rain o'er the waving grain, 
 Makes nature sing and smile again. 
 Then, ho 1 farmers, ho 1 &c. 
 
 The sad heart grieves as nature weaves 
 Her winding sheet in the autumn leaves. 
 Yet most sublime in the tempest chime, 
 Which reminds us all of the harvest time. 
 
 Then, ho 1 farmers, ho 1 
 Gather the fruits of your sowing ; 
 
 For the waving corn your fields adorn, 
 In token of labor bestowing. 
 
 Heigh, 1 the farmers go, 
 
 Gathering the fiuits they chose to sow 
 
 ^..^hen winter drear comes gathering near, 
 The songster birds no more we hear. 
 Yet dear those spells when mutic swells. 
 O'er the wintry storm in the merry bells. 
 
 Then ho I farmers ho 
 To the wild woods let's be going , 
 
 O'er ice and snow we'll onward go, 
 In despite of hurricanes blowing. 
 
 Heigh, 0, the woodmen go. 
 Breaking the roads through drifted snow. 
 
 Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter's thrall. 
 Bear many a lesson to us all ; 
 But like the dove, in the land of love, 
 They sing of purer springs above. 
 
 Then ho I mortals ho ! and hasten to your duty. 
 For though we die, like the butterfly. 
 We shall rise ere long in new beauty. 
 Heigh, 0, mortals go, — 
 Up to the world were joys o'erflow. 
 
 Oh, happy he the farmer free, 
 
 In his mountain home of liberty ; 
 
 For Heaven gave to the true and brave 
 
 The hills where ne'er could breathe the slav e. 
 
 Then ho ! farmers ho 1 for your's the best vocatioi\ 
 God's first command was to till the land, 
 In the morning of creation. 
 Heigh, 0, then farmers go. 
 Chanting the songs of freedom 0. 
 
BONGS OF THE HUTCHINSOlSa. 49 
 
 WORDS BY ELIZA COOK MUSIC BY HUTOHINSOW 
 
 Published by Oliver Ditson, Boston.) 
 
 "Topsy neber was born, 
 
 I^eber bad a moder ; 
 'Speots I growed a nigger brat, 
 
 Just like any oder. 
 Whip me till the blood pours down, 
 
 Ole Misses use to do it ; 
 She said she'd cut my heart right out, 
 
 But neber could get to it: 
 Got no heart, I don't belieb. 
 
 Niggers do without 'em ; 
 Never heard of God or Love, 
 
 So can't tell much about 'em." 
 
 This is Topsy's savage song, 
 
 Topsy 'cute and clever ; 
 Hurrah I then, for the white man's right! 
 
 Slavery forever ! 
 
 " I 'spects I'se very wicked, 
 
 That's just what I am ; 
 Oia'y you just give me a chance, 
 
 Won't I raise Ole Sam ! 
 'Taint no use in being good, 
 
 Cos' I'se black, you see; 
 I neber cared for nothin' yet, 
 
 And nothin' cares for me. 
 " Ha 1 ha ! ha ! Miss Feely's hand 
 
 Dun know how to grip me ; 
 Neber likes to do no work, 
 
 And won't, widout they whip me." 
 
 This is Topsy's savage song, 
 
 Topsy 'cute and clever ; 
 Hurrah ! then, for the white man's rightl 
 
 Slavery forever 1 
 
50 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINEOir& 
 
 " Don't you die, Miss Evy, 
 
 Else I go deal too ; 
 I knows I'se wicked, but I'll try, 
 
 And be all good to you. 
 Tou have taught me better things, 
 
 Though I'se nigger skin ; 
 Tou Lave found poor Topsy's heart, 
 
 Spite of all its sin. 
 Don't you die, Miss Evy, dear, 
 
 Else I go deat too ; 
 Though I'se black, I'se sure that God 
 
 Will let me go with you." 
 
 This is Topsy's human song, 
 
 Under love's endeavor 5 
 Hurrah ! then, for the white child's work! 
 
 Humanity forever ! 
 
 BY THOMAS HOORE. 
 
 They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a heart so warm and true ; 
 And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 Where all night long, by the fire-fly lamp, 
 
 She paddles her light canoe. 
 And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see ; 
 
 Her paddle I soon shall hear ! 
 Long and loving our life shall be ; 
 And I'll hide the maid in the cypress tree. 
 
 When the footsteps of death draw near. 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds. 
 
 His path was rugged and sore. 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
 Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 
 
 And man never trod before ; 
 Near him the she-wolf stirs the brake. 
 
 The copper-snake breathes in his ear, 
 Till he starting cried, from his dream awake. 
 Oh 1 when shall I see the dusky lake. 
 
 And the light canoe of my dear? 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHHSTSOlfS. 61 
 
 He reached the lake, and a meteor spark 
 
 Quick o'er its surface played ; 
 Welcome, he cried, my dear one's light ! 
 And the dim shore echoed for many a night 
 
 To the name of that death-cold maid ; 
 Till he made him a boat of birchen bark, 
 
 Which carried him off from the shora 
 Long, long, he followed that meteor spark ; 
 The wind was high, aud the night was dark, 
 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 And oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 
 
 That lover and maid so true 
 Are Been at the hour of midnight damp, 
 To cross the lake by their fire-fly lamp, 
 
 And to paddle their light cauoe. 
 
 Hiui Wuh toD nnn Wit. 
 
 MUSIC BY ABBY. 
 
 Bright things can never die, 
 
 E'en though they fade ; 
 Beauty and minstrelsy 
 Deathless were made. 
 What though the summer day- 
 Passes at eve away ? — 
 Doth not the moon's soft ray 
 Silver the night ? 
 
 Kind -words can never die ; 
 
 Cherished and blessed, 
 God kno-ws how deep they lie 
 
 Stored in the breast. 
 Like childhood's simple rhymes 
 Said o'er a thousand times ; 
 Ay, in all years and climes. 
 
 Distant and near. 
 
 Childhood can never die ; 
 
 Wrecks of the past 
 Float o'er the memory, 
 
 Bright to the last. 
 
52 SONGS or THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 Many a happy thing, 
 Many a daisied spring, 
 Floats o'er time's ceaseless spring 
 Far, far away. 
 
 €m Jfmhm: Wm tn §m it. 
 
 MUSIO BY HUTCHINSONS — WORDS BY CHARLES HACKAT. 
 
 We want no flag, no flaunting rag, 
 
 For Liberty to fight ; 
 We want no blaze of murderous guns. 
 
 To struggle for the right. 
 Our spears and swords are printed words ^ 
 
 Tlie mind our battle plain ; 
 We've won such victories before, 
 
 And so we shall again. 
 
 We love no triumphs sprung of force — 
 
 They stain lier brightest cause — 
 'Tis not in blood that Liberty 
 
 Inscribes her Civil Laws. 
 She writes them on the People's heart 
 
 In language clear and plain ; 
 True thousrhts have moved the world before, 
 
 And so they shall agaiu. 
 
 We yield to none in earnest love 
 
 Of Freedom's cause sublime ; 
 We join the cry, " Fraternity 1" 
 
 We keep the march of time. 
 And yet we grasp no pike nor spear. 
 
 Our victories to obtain j 
 We've won without their aid before 
 
 And so we shall again. 
 
 We want no aid of barricade. 
 
 To show a front of wrong ; 
 We have a citadel in Truth, 
 
 More durable and strong. 
 Calm words, great thoughts, unflinching faith, 
 
 Have never striven in vain ; 
 They've won our battles many a tin>e, 
 
 And so they shall again. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSON^ 53 
 
 Peace, Progress, Knowledge, Brotherhood ! 
 
 The ignorant may sneer — 
 The bad deny ; but we rely 
 
 To sea their triumphs near. 
 No widow's groans shall load our cause, 
 
 No bli>od of brethren slain ; 
 We've won without such aid beforej 
 
 Aud so we shall again. 
 
 BY GENERAL STARKE. 
 
 The daughter sits iu the parlor, 
 
 And rocks in the easy chair — 
 She is dressed in her silks and satinet 
 
 And jewels are in her hair. 
 She smiles and she sniggles and simpers, 
 
 And simpers and sniggles and winks ; 
 And although she talks but a little, 
 
 'Tis vastly more than she thinks. 
 
 Her father goes clad in his russets. 
 
 And ragged and seedy at that ; 
 His coat is out at the elbows. 
 
 And he wears a most shocking bad hat. 
 lie is hoarding aud saving his shillings. 
 
 Si) carefully day by day, 
 While she with her beaus and poodles. 
 
 Is throwing them all away. 
 
 She lies abed in the morning 
 
 Till almost the hour of noon, 
 And comes down snapping and snarling 
 
 Because they have called her so soon. 
 Her hair is still in the papers, 
 
 Her cheeks still daubed with paint- 
 Remains of her last night's blushes, 
 
 Before she intended to faint 
 
 Her feet are so very little. 
 Her hands are so very while! 
 
 Her jewels are so very hoavy. 
 And her head so very light ! 
 
5i SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONa 
 
 Her color is made of cosmetics, 
 
 But tliis she will never own ; 
 Her body's made mostly of cotton, 
 
 Her heart is made wholly of stone. 
 She falls in love with a fellow 
 
 Who swells with a foreign air; 
 He marries her for her money, 
 
 She marries him for his hair. 
 One of the very best matches! 
 
 Both are well mated in life ; 
 She's got a fool for a husband. 
 
 And he's got a fool for a wife. 
 
 S'lii (0ning Inntt. 
 
 UUSIC BY T. WOOD. 
 
 {Published by Firth, Pond ^ Co; New Y^ik) 
 Oh ! I'm going home, to the old hearthstone, 
 "Where warm hearts will greet me as homeward I conies 
 The fetters are strong round the household throng, 
 And I've wandered long, so I'm going, going — 
 I'm going home. 
 
 'Neath the evergreen hill, 
 
 By the gentlest rill 
 That ever kissed pebbles, the old cot still 
 
 Goes on to decay, 
 
 As it did that day 
 
 When I wandered away; 
 But I'm going, going — I'm going home '. 
 
 Soon, soon shall I press 
 
 To my throbbing breast. 
 The friends I in childhood so fondly caressed. 
 
 My heart-strings thrill, 
 
 I\ly eye-lids fill, 
 
 For I love them stilL 
 Oh I I'm going, going — 1 in gomg home! 
 
 Oh ! would that my joy 
 
 Were free from alloy ! 
 Oh ! would that my bodings, my hopes could destroy t 
 
 But I shall soon know 
 
 Whether weal or woe, 
 
 Belide where I go ; 
 For I'm going, going — I'm going home! 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 55 
 
 Kind strangers, adieu ! 
 
 With heart ever Irue, 
 Ab onward I go, I'll still think of you ; 
 
 And when loved ones I meet 
 
 Kound the family seat, 
 
 Your praise I'll repeat; 
 For I'm going, going — I'm going home! 
 
 Home — srfeet, sweet home! 
 
 There is no place like home ! 
 
 There is no place like home I 
 
 And thus, when on earth our journeyings are o'er, 
 And our voices are hushed and heard here no more, 
 I'aith whispers to me: In joy we shall be. 
 As our kindred we see, in our heavenly home ! — 
 Yes! we're going, going, to tliat Eternal Home ! 
 
 EiMng m a ItngB. 
 
 Crppping through the valley, crawling o'er the hill, 
 .--plashing through the branches, rumbling by the mill ; 
 Putting nervous gemmen in a towering rage: 
 What is so provoking as riding in a stage ? 
 
 Feet are interlacing, heads severely bumped ; 
 Friend and foe together, get their noses thumped. 
 Dresses act as carpets ; listen to the sage : 
 Life is but a journey, taken in a stage. 
 
 Spinsters fair and forty, maids in youthiful charms, 
 Suddenly are cast into their neighbors' arms ; 
 Children shoot, like squirrels darting through a cage ; 
 Is'nt it delightful, riding in a stage ? 
 
 Bonnets crushed around us, hats look worse for wear ; 
 Teeth at each concussion fly to take the air ; 
 Shriveled maiden ladies, past a certain age. 
 Groan forlornly, " Dreadful riding in a stage 1" 
 
56 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINS ONS. 
 
 Wi'm kit iigttiE nur SKnetniE "Mmi ; 
 
 WORDS AND MUSIC BY HENRY W. DUNBAR. 
 
 (Published by Oliver Ditson,) 
 
 The good old State, the brave old State, 
 Where granite rocks abound, 
 Where rushing streams and mouiUaius great 
 Throw sweetest murmurs round ! 
 In thee we leave our mountain home, 
 While kind remembrance thrills 
 Each heart and mind for kindred kind, 
 Among the Granite Hills. 
 
 By stream and lake, by stream and lake, 
 lieside the wild cascade, 
 Where cataracts their echos wake, 
 Or 'neath some forest shade, 
 We've left again our mountain home — 
 Where kind remembrance thrills 
 Kach heart and mind, for iiindred kind 
 Among the Granite Hills. 
 
 Through milder climes, through milder clime*, 
 And richer lands, we roam, 
 Where merry music sweetly chimes 
 From many a happy home. 
 Tlien think of those we've left behind. 
 Where kind remembrance thrills 
 Kach heart and mind, for kindred kind, 
 Among the Granite Hills] 
 
 Sn a gnni €itrn mliBn \u tan. 
 
 WOn;>S BY CHARLES MACKAV, ESa MUSIC BY HUTCHINSOM. 
 
 (Published by Oliver Ditson, Boston.) 
 
 It needs not great wealth a kind heart to display ; 
 If the hand be but willing, it soon finds a way; 
 And the poorest one yet, in the humblest abode. 
 May help a poor brother a utep on ihe load. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCniNSONa 57 
 
 Oh ! whatever of fortune a man may have won, 
 
 A kindness depends on the way it is done ; 
 
 And, though poor be our purse, and though narrow our span, 
 
 Let us all try to do a good turn when we can I 
 
 The fair hloom of pleasure may charm for a while ; 
 
 But its beauty is pale, and inconstant its smile ; 
 
 While the beauty of kindness, immortal in bloom, 
 
 Sheds a sweetness o'er life and a grace o'er the tomb. 
 
 Then, if we enjoy life, why, the next thing to do, 
 
 Is to see that another enjoys his life, too ; 
 
 And, though poor be our purse, and though narrow our span, 
 
 Let ns all try to do a good turn when we can ! 
 
 (Dlj, Ini S tljj Wmp nf e Hm. 
 
 Oh ! had I wings like a dove, I would fly 
 
 Away from this world of care ; 
 My soul would mount to realms on high. 
 
 And seek for a ref\ige there ! 
 But is there no heaven here on earth, 
 
 No home for the wounded breast 1 
 fo favored spot where content has birth. 
 
 In which 1 may find a rest! 
 
 Oh ! is it not written, " Believe and live " ? 
 
 The heart by bright hope allured, 
 Shall find the comfort these words can give, 
 
 And be by its faith assured. 
 Then why should we fear the cold world's frown, 
 
 When Faith to the heart has given ' 
 The light of religion, to guide us on 
 
 In joy to the paths of Heaven ? 
 
 There is . there is ! in Thy Holy Word— . 
 
 Thy Word which can ne'er depart—* 
 There is a promise of mercy stored. 
 
 For the lowly and meek of heart: 
 '' My yoke is easy, my burdeu light ; 
 
 Then come unto me for rest." 
 These, these are the words of promise stored 
 
 For the wounded and wearied breast 
 
58 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 '€b $mti k to Eemratoiii 
 
 'Tis sweet to be remembered in the turmoils of this life, 
 While struggling up its pathway, while mingling in its strife ; 
 While wandering o'er earth's borders, or sailing on the sea, 
 'Tis sweet to be remembered, wherever we may be. 
 
 'Tis sweet, &c. 
 
 When those we love are absent from our hearthstone and our side, 
 'Tis joy to learn that pleasure, that peace with them abide. 
 And that although we're absent, we're thought of day by day; 
 'Tis sweet to be remembered by those who are far away. 
 
 'Tis sweet, &c. 
 
 What though our path be rugged, though clouded be our sky, 
 And none we love or cherish, no friendly one is nigh, 
 To cheer us in our sorrows, or share with us our lot, 
 'Tis sweet to be remembered, and know we're not forgot. 
 
 'Tis sweet, &c. 
 
 When all oiu: toils are ended, the conflict all is done. 
 And peace and sweetest accents proclaim the victory won, 
 When hushed is aU the tumult, and calm is all the strife, 
 'Tis sweet to be remembered in the closing hour of life. 
 
 'Tis sweet, &o. 
 
 BY L. F. BLANCHARD. 
 
 What need of all this fuss aud strife 
 
 Each warring with his brother ; 
 Wliy need we, in the crowd of life. 
 
 Keep trampling down each other? 
 Is there no goal that can be won 
 
 Without a squeeze to gain it; 
 No other way of getting on 
 
 But scrambling to obtain it? 
 
 Oh, fellow men ! remember then, 
 Whatever chance befall, 
 
 The world is wide in lands beside, 
 Tliere's room enough for all. 
 
SONGS OF THE HDTCHINS0N3. 59 
 
 What if the swarthy peasant find 
 
 No field for honest labor, 
 He need not idly stop behind 
 
 To thrust aside his neighbor. 
 There is a land with sunny skies, 
 
 Which gold for toil is giving, 
 Where &very brawny hand that tries 
 
 Its strength can grasp a living. 
 
 Oh, fellow men ! &c. 
 
 From poisoned air ye breathe in courts, 
 
 And typhus-tainted alleys, 
 Go forth and dwell where health resorts. 
 
 In rural hills and valleys ; 
 Where every hand that clears a bough 
 
 Finds plenty in attendance, 
 And every furrow of the plow 
 
 A step to independence. 
 
 Oh, hasten, then, from fevered den, 
 And lodging cramped and small ] 
 
 The world is wide in lands beside. 
 There's room enough for all 
 
 In this fair region, far away. 
 
 Will labor find employment, 
 A fair day's work, a fair day's pay. 
 
 And toil will bring enjoyment. 
 What need, then, of this daily strife. 
 
 Each warring with his brother ; 
 Why need we, in the crowd of life. 
 
 Keep trampling down each other 7 
 
 Oh, fellow men ! remember, then, 
 Whatever chance befall. 
 
 The world is wide where those nbide^ 
 There's room enough for all. 
 
60 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 EiMiEn hq tjIJ ^i^i '^kmn. 
 
 WBITTEN BY GEORGE W. PUTNAM. 
 
 Hidden by the slave power, 
 
 Crushed beneath the chain, 
 Now is come our rising hour, 
 
 Lo ! we're up again. 
 And Toices iirom the mountain height, 
 
 Voices from the vale. 
 Say to freedom's fearless host, 
 
 There's no such word as fail. 
 
 Ay ! we're up to hurl the fiend 
 
 From off the tyrant throne ; 
 To strike for man a mightier blow 
 
 Than earth hath ever known ; 
 To drag yoiu: code of whips and gyves 
 
 XTp to the Kght of day, 
 And wash from our escutcheon's front 
 
 The bloody stain away. 
 
 Free to speak the burning truth. 
 
 All fetterless the hand. 
 Never shall the Yankee's brow 
 
 Bear the cursed brand. 
 Send the gathering freemen's shout 
 
 Booming on the gale ; 
 Omnipotence is for us, — 
 
 There's no such word as fail. 
 
 They're gathering on the mountain. 
 
 They're gathering on the plain. 
 And 'neath the tramp of freedom's host 
 
 The broad earth shakes again. 
 And this their glorious rallying cry, 
 
 "Whose firm hearts never quail : 
 God and the people ! on for right, — 
 
 There's no such word as faU. 
 
S03MG6 OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 61 
 
 ■WOBDS BY JTTDSON. 
 
 I looxed to the south, and I looked to the west, 
 
 And I saw old Slavery a comin', 
 With four northern doughfaces hitched np in front, 
 DriTing Freedom to the other side of Jordan. 
 
 Then take off coats, boys, roll up sleeves , 
 Slavery is a hard foe to battle, I believe. 
 
 Slavery and Freedom they both had a fight, 
 
 And the whole north came up behind 'em, 
 Hit Slavery a few knocks, with a free ballot box. 
 
 Sent it staggering to the other side of Jordan. 
 Take off, &c. 
 
 If I was the legislature of these United States, 
 
 Pd settle this great question accordin' ; 
 rd let every slave go free, over land and on the sea. 
 Let em' have a little hope this side of Jordan. 
 
 Then rouse up, ye freemen, the sword unsheathe ; 
 Freedom is the best road to travel, I believe. 
 
 The soath have their school, where the masters learn to rule. 
 
 And they lord it o'er the free states accordin' ; 
 But sure they'd better quit, ere they rouse the Yankee grit, 
 
 And we tumble 'em over t'other side of Jordan. 
 Take off, &c. 
 
 New Hampshire and Vermont have surely come to want. 
 
 To raise such scamps as Frank and Stephen, 
 And they'd better hire John Mitchel, with shillalah, club and switcheL 
 Drive 'em down to Alabama and leave 'em. 
 
 Then take off coats, boys, roll up sleeves ; 
 Popery is a hard foe to battle. 
 
 Edward Everett oped hia mouth for the votes of the south. 
 
 But his wishy-washy speech was so rotten. 
 That it stuck to his spine, and he took a bee line. 
 Lodged in State Street behind a bag of cctton. 
 
 Then take off coats, boys, roll ap sleeves. 
 Cotton bags are hard things to battle, I believe. 
 
62 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 But the day is drawing nigh that Slavery must die, 
 
 And evei-y one must do his part accordiu' ; Itoo,) 
 
 Then let ns all unite to give every man his right, {and every woman 
 And we'll get our pay the other side of Jordan. 
 
 Then rouse up, ye freemen, the sword unsheathe ; 
 freedom is the best road to travel, I believe. 
 
 Call to '^mm, 
 
 BY LtrCT LARCOM. 
 
 Yeomen strong, hither throng, 
 
 Nature's honest men ; 
 "We will make the wilderness 
 
 Bud and bloom again. 
 Bring the sickle, speed the plough, 
 
 Turn the ready soil ; 
 Freedom is the noblest pay 
 For the true man's toil. 
 Ho, brothers ! come, brothers ! 
 
 Hasten all with me ; 
 We'll sing upon the Kansas plains 
 A song of liberty ! 
 
 Father, haste ! o'er the waste 
 
 Lies a pleasant land ; 
 There your firesides, altar stones, 
 
 Fixed in truth shall stand ; 
 There your sons, brave and good, 
 
 Shall to freemen grow, 
 
 Clad in triple mail of right, 
 
 Wrong to overthrow. 
 
 Ho, brothers ! come, brothers ! 
 
 Hasten all with me ; 
 We'll sing upon the Kansas plains 
 A song of liberty ! 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 63 
 
 Mother, come ! here's a home 
 
 In the waiting west ; 
 Bring the seeds of love and peace, 
 
 Ton who sow them best. 
 Faithful hearts, holy prayars, 
 
 Keep from taint the air ; 
 Soil a mother's tears hare wet 
 Golden crops shall bear. 
 Come, mother, fond mother, 
 
 List 1 we call to thee ! 
 We'll sing, &c. 
 
 Brother brave, stem the wave ! 
 
 Firm the prairies tread ! 
 TJp the dark Missouri flood 
 
 Be your canvas spread. 
 Sister true, join us too. 
 
 Where the Kansas flows ; 
 Let the northern lily bloom 
 With the southern rose. 
 Brave brother ! true sister ! 
 
 List ! we call to thee ! 
 We'll sing, &c. 
 
 One and all, hear our call 
 Echo through the land ! 
 Aid US with a willing heart, 
 
 And the strong right hand ! 
 Feed the spark the Pilgrims struck 
 
 On old Plymouth Rock ! 
 To the watch fires of the free 
 Millions glad shall flock. 
 Ho, brothers ! come, brothers 1 
 
 Hasten all with me ; 
 We'll sing, &c 
 
64 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 f|£ POTg-|ank« §ffg. 
 
 MUSIC BY J. W. HUTCHINSON. 
 
 When I was young, about sixteen, 
 
 None was more bright and gay ; 
 I gamboled nimbly on the green, 
 
 Or sported in the hay. 
 The bloom of youth was on my cheek. 
 
 My heart was full of joy ; 
 How happy were those days to me, 
 
 The merry farmer's boy ! 
 For I was a Yankee boy, &c. 
 
 I loved to use the pocket knife 
 
 Before I went to school ; 
 And fast I learned the mystery of 
 
 That wistful, magic tool. 
 My hoarded cents fprized so high, 
 
 I gladly gave to get it ; 
 And then no stone I left unturned, 
 
 Until I learned to whet it. 
 For I was a Yankee boy, &c. 
 
 But now I'm old, my heart is sad. 
 
 My locks have all turned gray ; 
 And every scene that made me glad 
 
 Has passed, has passed away ! 
 Before I'm called to leave this world 
 
 My mind I will employ ; 
 And think that I was once in life 
 
 The merry farmer's boy. 
 
 For I was a Yankee boy, &c. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 65 
 
 /nrt^ ^im ngn. 
 
 UECOLLECTIONS OF THE PAST. 
 
 I've wandered to the village, Tom, 
 
 I've sat beneath the tree 
 Upon the schoolhouae play ground. 
 
 That sheltered you and me. 
 But none were left to greet me, Tom, 
 
 And few were left to know 
 Who played with us upon the green 
 
 Just forty years ago. 
 
 The grass was just as green, Tom, 
 
 Barefooted boys at play 
 Were sporting, just as we had been, 
 
 With spirits just as gay. 
 But the master sleeps upon the hill. 
 
 Which, coated o'er with snow, 
 Afforded us a shding place 
 
 Some forty years ago. 
 
 The old schoolhouse is altered some ; 
 
 The benches are replaced 
 By new ones very like the same 
 
 Our jackknives had defaced. 
 But the same old brick are in the wall. 
 
 The bell swings to and fro, 
 Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 
 
 'Twas forty years ago. 
 
 The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill 
 
 Close by the spreading beach. 
 Is very low ; 'twas once so high 
 
 That we could scarcely reach ; 
 And kneeling down to get a drink. 
 
 Dear Tom, I started so, 
 To think how much I've changed 
 
 Since forty years ago. 
 
 Near by that spring upon an elm, 
 
 You know, I cut your name, 
 Your sweetheart's just beneaAh it, Tom, 
 
 And you did mine the same. 
 Some heartless wretch has pealed the bark ; 
 
 'Twas dying, sure, but slow. 
 Just as that one whose name you cut 
 
 Some forty years ago. 
 
SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSONS. 67 
 
 Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, 
 
 So have I ;" 
 She wears hers upon her bosom, 
 
 Inside, I ; 
 She '11 leave hers at death's portals, 
 
 By and by ; 
 I shall bear the treasure with me. 
 
 When I die, — 
 Por I have love, and she has gold. 
 She counts her wealth — mine can't be told. 
 
 She has those who love her station. 
 
 None have I ; 
 But I've one true heart beside me. 
 
 Glad am I ; 
 I'd not change it for a kingdom, 
 
 No, not I. 
 God will weigh it in the balance. 
 
 By and by — 
 And then the difference he 'II define, 
 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 
 
 "^Ijat m tte miltlBfluts Iniitug. 
 
 Paul. 
 
 MUSIC EY 6L0VEK. 
 
 What are the wild waves saying. 
 
 Sister, the whole day long. 
 That ever amid our playing, 
 
 I hear but their low, lone song 
 Not by the sea-side only. 
 
 There it sounds wild and free ; 
 But at night, when 'tis dark and lonely, 
 In dreams, it is still with me. 
 
 Florence. 
 
 Brother, I hear no singing ! 
 
 'T is but the rolling wave. 
 Ever its lone course winging 
 
 Over some ocean cave ! 
 'T is but the noise of water. 
 
 Dashing against the shore, 
 And the wind from some bleaker quarter. 
 
 Mingling with its roar. 
 
68 
 
 SONGS OF THE HUTCHINSON'S. 
 
 Flokexch and Paul. 
 
 Paul. 
 
 Florence. 
 
 No, no, no ; it is something greater, 
 That speaks to the heart alone ; 
 
 The voice of the great Creator 
 Dwells in that mighty tone. 
 
 Yes ; but the waves seem ever 
 
 Singing the same sad thing. 
 And vain is my weak endeavor, 
 
 To guess what the surges sing. 
 What is that voice repeating, 
 
 Ever by night and day t 
 Is it a friendly greeting, 
 
 Or a warning that calls away ? 
 
 Brother, the inland mountain, 
 
 Hath it not voice and sound ? 
 Speaks not the dripping fountain. 
 
 As it bedews the ground, 
 E' en by the household ingle. 
 
 Curtained, and closed, and warm ? 
 Do not our voices mingle 
 
 With those of the distant storm ? 
 
 Flokence and Paul. 
 
 Yes, yes, yes ; but there's something greater, 
 
 That speaks to the heart alone ; 
 The voice of the great Creator 
 
 Dwells in that mighty tone. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2044.H468 1858 
 
 The Hutchinson family's boolt of poeti 
 
 3 1924 022 108 801