92

MISCELLANEOUS.

PIT PAT.

A BEAU I had once on a time

A handsome fellow too;

[Music by Ehrlich.

Who wore moustaches, danced and sung,
And other graces knew.

The time we met-delightful thought

Sweet moments of unrest

His heart went pit, and then went pat,
At least so he confest.

'Twas by a lake of waters blue,
Upon the silver strand,
With fond emotion in his eyes,

He offered me his hand.

I need not tell you how my face
With deepest crimson grew;
Both hearts went pit, and then went pat,
And very proper too.

THE RAINY DAY.

H. W. LONGFELLOW. [Music by Stephen Massett.*

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all:

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

*There is an English version also.

TWENTY YEARS AGO.

WE BREAK THE CLASS.*
EDWARD C. PINKNEY. Died 1828.

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine
To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane;
And thus I broke a heart that pour'd
Its tide of feelings out for thee,
In draughts, by after-times deplored,
Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, impassion'd ways
And habits of my mind remain,
And still unhappy light displays
Thine image chamber'd in my brain,
And still it looks as when the hours
Went by like flights of singing birds,
Or that soft chain of spoken flowers
And airy gems-thy words.

TWENTY YEARS AGO.

G. P. MORRIS.

[Music by Austin Phillips.

'TWAS in the flush of Autumn time,

Some twenty years or more,

When ERNEST lost his way and cross'd
The threshold of our door.
I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet,
His brow of Alpine snow,
His manly grace of form and face,
His manly grace of form and face,
Some twenty years ago!

Twenty years ago!

The hand he ask'd I freely gave;
Mine was a happy lot—
In all my pride to be his bride,
Within my father's cot.

The faith he spoke he never broke;
His constant heart I know;
And well I vow I love him now,

And well I vow I love him now
As twenty years ago!

Twenty years ago!

93

* The author of this song was born in London, in October, 1802, while his father, the Hon. William Pinkney, was the American Minister at the Court of St. James's.

AUNT DINA ROE.

ETHIOPIAN SONG.

Au! well I remember old Aunt Dina Roe-
Her eye dim with age, and her wool like de snow;
She libed in a hut near the riber Pee Dee,
And more dan a mudder was Dina to me:
For she was de fust one to learn me a tune,
De fust one to teach me to trap de old 'coon;
And as long as de blood in dis body shall flow,
I'll remember wid gratitude Aunt Dina Roe.
She was good to de poor nigger-loving and mild;
She'd joke wid de old folks, and play wid a child;
She'd frown at de wrong act, but smile at the right ;
And ebery one lubed her, boff black and de white.
And often, when smokin' her pipe at de door,
The birds would fly in and hop ober de floor;
For dey knew, though dey seen de old cat on de chair,
Dat puss
couldn't hurt 'em, for Dina was there.
She'd cry wid de sorrowing, laugh wid de gay,
Tend on de sick bed, an' join in de play;
De fust at de funeral, wedding, or birth—
De killer ob trouble and maker ob mirth.
She spoke her mind freely, was plain as de day,
But neber hurt any by what she might say:
If she once made a promise, it neber was broke,
And her friends would all swear to what Dina had spoke.
One beautiful mornin', at brake ob de day,

I stopped at de old hut while passing dat way;
I opened de door-what an objec' was there!
My dear old Aunt Dina was dead in her chair.
We buried her under an old willow-tree,
Where many a time she had frolicked wid me;
E'en massa wept for her, though she was a slave;
And Touser, her faithful dog, died on her grave.

*This poem has been adapted to music by a score of composers, English and American; but, strange to say, the dreariest and most inexpressive version (by Miss Lindsay) has met with by far the largest sale. Who can explain this?

EXCELSIOR.

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

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,
Excelsior!

"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last good night;
A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint BERNARD
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

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 device,
Excelsior!

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!
Excelsior!

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UNCLE SAM.

A CHARACTERISTIC YANKEE SONG.

ORATIONISE may ancient Greece,
About its shattered glory;
And Rome may spin a classic yarn,
Some fierce inflated story.
And France with her Napoleons,
And Revolution smashes,
And Boulevard inhabitants,
All lingo and moustaches,

Are well enough, as countries go;
But I'll tell you the nation-
'Tis UNCLE SAM, across the sea,
And he beats "all creation!"
There's Bomba and poor Naples too,
I've no desire to fret her;
But the sooner that he emigrates
From this world-all the better!
And SPAIN is crumblin' like a cheese :
A few grandees and minions,
Who live on garlic, constitute
Queen Isabelle's dominions.
In fact there's no denyin' it,
The only perfect nation
Is Uncle Sam-a famous chap,
And he beats "all creation!"
And RUSSIA is of no account,
Nor monarch Alexander;
He'll never set the sea on fire!
I'll rile him by my candour.
And PRUSSIA-into a cocked hat
Three sturdy blows would knock it;

And as for little BELGIUM,

I'd put it in my pocket.

There is no backing out the fact,
It needs no cogitation,

To tell that "Uncle Sam" in size
Demolishes creation!

And yet there is a leetle place,

With which I'm somewhat smitten; A spot that's made a wond'rous noise, guess I mean Great Britain.

I

* The music of this song is published by Addison, Regent Street, London.