Price, 5 Cents. CONTENTS OF THIS NUMBER. PAGE *T will Nebber do to Gib it Up So. : | The Killarney Fusileers They Say agers Dear Heart, We’re Growing Old. Dream of the Dance... One Christmas-Tide .. Morn on the Meadow . Bye-Lo-Land. oo. . seriaiye. ai one Take Back the Heart.. 2 2 Don’t Drink, My Boy, To-night... é Major Majolica .... Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 2 Down by the Surging Sea........ I Will Stand by My Friend....... Things That Never Die... . ‘is List’ning on the Hill........ In the Wild Chamois’ Track...... Of What is My Darling Dreaming? PIRES TRUS rs at Ses bce The Stars and Stripes.... Hoop-De-Doo-Den-Doo..... Dwelling with the Angels, .. Sweet Boy and Girl............... 10 Werry Pekooliar. .... see Keep This Bible Near Heart. 8 Conimne TL Wate ss 5s vs cea 8 Did You Ever Call Me Darling?... 9 Dream, Baby, Dream .. ..... ... 9 When My Dreams Come True _.. 9 Oh, Sing to Me Those Dear Old PONIES oe oe ys sea Rts ee Love and Friendship Still Are Thine: 2... Ree eine iastop nd tae 9 | I’m Coming Home to Die........ Will He Never Come?......... - 10 The Ebony Swell.............. 2. 10 ‘Tis Money Makes the Mare Go! or L. 8. e245 Nigger, Put Down Dat Jug.... ...11 We Will Not Retreat Any More ..11 The Sorrowful Paddy... ........ ii It’s Very Aggravating!........... 12 Wouldn’t You Like to Know?....12 The Stirrup Cup. 3. . ovscaes aca ce 12 Switzer’s Song of Home... ..... 12 Limberger Scheese! oe “ule | Moonlight, Starlight, Daylight.. 13 BOSLAT AMONG 1» 6 peereinteis casey save Seabee Gailer Grey. i ciccs oie 97+ ores raga Stop Dat Knockin’.... ...........18 The Sunny Hours of Childhood. .13 Wh. Cee BOP sion ts. Hs De Flip-Flap Nigs................. Mother Would Comfort Me. ..... 5 Roses Lie Along the Way ....... 5 Many a Time and Oft............. Charming Blue-Eyed Bess........ Gentle Annie Ray The Landsman’s Song............ Come, oh, Come with Me......... ’T will Neber Do To Gib It Up So. I’m ole Mister Brown, jist from de souf; I left Lynchburg in de time ob de drowth; De times dey got so bad in de place, Dat de niggers dare not show dar face; Twill neber do to gib it up so, *T will neber do to gib it up so; Twill neber do to gib it up so, Mister Brown, *T will neber do to gib it up so. Ole Jim Ribber I floated down, My ’backer boat it run upon de groun’; De pine-log come wid a-rushin’ din, An stobe bote ends ob de ole boat in. It will neber do, etc. De ole log rake me aft an fore, It left my cook-house on de shore; I thought it wouldn’t do to gib it up so, So I scull myself ashore wid de old banjo. It will neber do, etc. I gits on shore, and feels berry glad; I looks at de banjo, and feels berry mad; My foot slip an’ I fell down— *T will neber do to gib it up so, Mister Brown. It will neber do, ete. By golly, but it made de ole nig laff— Wid my boat I made a raff; I had a pine tree for a sail, An’ steer’d her down wid my coat-tail, It will neber do, etc, And Fifty-six other Songs in this issue! Sold by all newsdealers, fiye cents each; or sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of six cents per copy. BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N. Y. i { | Sen ee ae scse000 See 2 THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. I met wid a cat-fish in de riber— By gosh! but it made dis nigger shiber! I steer’d right straight for de critter’s snout, An turn de ole cat-fish inside out, It will neber do, etc. Dat same night, as de sun did set, I ’ribed in town wid my clothes all wet; De niggers built up a great fire— If dat’s not true den I am a liar. It will neber do, etc. Master on de wood-pile, barking like a dog; Toad in de mill-pond, settin’ on a log; *Possum up a gum-tree, saucy, fat an dirty, Come, kiss me, gals, or I'll run like a turkey. It will neber do, ete. THEY SAY. Copied ee permission of S. Bramyarp’s Sons, Music Publishers, Cleveland, ., owners of the copyright. Music and words, 30 cents. “ They say ”! ah, well, suppose they do! But can they prove the story true? Suspicion may arise from naught But malice, envy, want of thought. Why count yourself among the ‘‘ they ” Who whisper what they dare not say? “ They say ”; but why the tale rehearse, And help to make the matter worse? No good can possibly accrue From telling what may be untrue, And is it not a nobler plan To speak of all the best you can? “ They say”; well, if it should be so, Why need you tell the tale of woe? Will it the bitter wrong redress, Or make a pang of sorrow less? Will it the erring one restore, Henceforth to ‘‘ go and sin no more?” “ They say”! oh, pause and look within! See how thy heart inclines to sin! Watch lest in dark temptation’s hour, Thou, too, shouldst sink beneath its pow’r! The frail then pity for their fall, But speak of good, or not at all! a a Dear Heart, We’re Growing Old. Copied by permission of Gro. W. RicHarpson & Co., 256 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 35 cents. Dear heart, I find we’re growing old; The years, so quickly passed away Since first we met, have left their trace Upon us both in threads of gray; The rose has faded from your cheek, 4 But never has your heart grown cold, Nor do we love each other less, Dear heart, because we’re growing old. Cuorus—Dear heart, because we’re growing old, Dear heart, because we’re growing old, Nor do we love each other less, Dear heart, because we’re growing old. To me you're fairer than you were The day I won you for my bride; And held you fondly in my arms, Unconscious of all else beside; The faded cheek and whitened hair Have yet for me a charm untold, That only strengthens with each year, Dear heart, now we are growing old. (CHORUS.) Full forty years have pass’d since then, Years filled with only purest joy, No cloud has ever crossed our path, Our bliss has been without alloy; And when we reach the ‘shining shore,” And pearly gates for us unfold, God grant that both may enter in, » Dear heart, and nevermore grow old. (CHORUS.) t DREAM OF THE DANCE. Copied by permission of E. H. Harprna, 229 Bowery, New York, owner of the copyright. Music and words, 10 cents. In dreamland oft such visions rich And rare appear to me, All sparkling with a splendid grace, In dreams so sweet to see. The glitter of the picture soft, Entrances as I glance, A glimpse of shining beauty is My bright dream of the dance. Sweet, bright dream of the dance! Sweet, bright dream of the dance! Vision rare of splendor bright, glorious sight, Sweet, bright dream of the dance! Sweet, bright dream of the dance! Ah! what dazzling spell, The bright dream of the dance. Ah! With senses stecp’d in dreams of light, Of bright-hued, glorious dreams, And dazzling with their mellow sheen Of glitt’ring, golden beams; Enchanted with the fairy spell Enraptur’d as I glance, A picture rich and brilliant is My bright dream of the dance. Ah! Sweet, bright dream of the dance! etc, ONE CHRISTMAS-TIDE. \ Copied by permission of 8. BrAtNARD’s Sons, Cleveland, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 25 cents. ’Twas at the merry Christmas-tide, When Willie came to me, And said that if I my love would give, No prize could fairer be! ; For I was young, with laughing eye And bonnie hair of gold, And he was king, with no regal crown, But a heart that was true and bold! Oh, Willie, oh, Willie | Was ev’ry lassie’s pride! Ob, Willie, my Willie, .Who came at the Christmas-tide! And I, that merry Christmas-tide, Made answer soft and low: ‘‘T’ve naught for a gift—not e’en my heart, *Twas yours so long ago!” : Then loud laughed he—‘‘So poor are we, ‘With never a heart laid by! But sweet is the lot that such beggars know, , For our giftewe shall keep for aye.” Oh, Willie, oh, Willie, ete, \ x. Morn on ihe Meadow. Published by EB. H. Harprna, 229 Bowery, New York. Music and words, ¥ ig cents. ‘ Morn on the meadow, and blossom and:spray, Glitter, like gems, in the dew-light’of day! Grasses of emerald tufted with gold, Lilies, like love, when too bashful and cold! Wings of the wild bee disturbing the nest Of the lark that still broods o’er the song in its breast, Flow’ret and butterfly wake as new born; *Tis morn on the meadow, the dew-lighted morn. Night on the fields, and the mower hath been; And the gems of the meadcw no longer are seen, The bright and beautiful, faded and dead, Lie cold asthe tears which the moonlight hath shed. The years of our being are lost like a breath, For the mower hath been and that mower is Death, But a morn shall yet rise and the dead be reborn, And a beauty eternal shall circle that morn, eat ‘ THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. ——— BYE-LO-LAND, Copied by permission of S. Bramyarp’s Sons, Cleveland, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 25 cents. Baby is going to Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, Going to see the sights so grand, To see the sights so grand. Out of the sky the wee stars peep, Watching to see her fast asleep, Swing so! Bye-lo! Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land! Ob, the bright dreams in Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, All by the loving angels planned, The loving angels planned; Soft little lashes downward close, Just like the petals of a rose, Swing so! Bye-lo! Prettiest eyes in Bye-lo-land! Sweet is the way to Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, Bye-lo-land, Guided by mother’s gentle hand, By mother’s gentle hand; Little lambs now are in the fold, Little birds nestle from the cold, Swing so! Bye-lo! Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land! Take Back the Heart. Published by E. H. Hagprne, ime iho New York. Music and words, 0 cents. Take back the heart that thou gavest, What is my anguish to thee? Take back the freedom thou cravest, Leaving the fetters to me. Take back the vows thou hast spoken, Fling them aside and be free, Smile o’er each pitiful token, Leaving the sorrow for me. Drink deep of life’s fond illusion, Gaze on the storm-cloud, and flee Swiftly, thro’ strife and confusion, Leaving the burdén to me. Then when at last overtaken, Time flings its fetters o’er thee; Come, with a trust still unshaken,, Come back a captive to me. Come back in sadness or sorrow, Once more my darling to be. Come as of old, love, to borrow Glimpses of sunlight from me. ' Love shall resume her dominion, Striving no more to be free When on her world-weary pinion, Flies back my lost love to me. Don’t Drink, My Boy, To-night. Copied by permission of Gro. W. Ricnarpson & Co,, 256 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 35 cents, I left my mother at the door, My sister at her side, Their clasped hands and loving looks, Forbade their doubts to hide. T’ve often roamed with comrades gay, When the moon brought out her light, And my loving mother whispered me, “Don’t drink, my boy, to-night.” - Coorus—l’ve often roamed with comrades gay, When the moon shone out her light, And my loving mother whispered me, “Don’t drink, my boy, to-night.” Long years have rolled away since then, My jetty curls are gray, But still those words they linger yet, And will not pass away. I see my mother’s loving face, Eyes bright with Heavn’s own light, And hear her words ring in my ears, “Don’t drink, my boy, to-night.” _(CHoruws.) My mother now is resting calm, In the graveyard on the hill, But her kind words come back to me, And haunt my mem’ry still. I’ve often, often passed the cup, Ah! then my heart was right, *T was because I heard the warning words, “Don’t drink, my boy, to-night.” (CHorus.) I’ve now passed down the road of life, And soon my race is run, A mother’s warning listened to, Has saved her loving son. Thy words will stop the morning cup, And revelry at night, By whisp’ring back a mother’s voice, “ Don’t drink, my boy, to-night.” (CHorvs.) MAJOR MAJOLICA. Copied by permission of E. H. Harpine, 229 Bowery, New York, owner of the copyright. Music and words, 10 cents. In martial array, we see each day Our soldiers on parade, With music sweet and tramping feet, Bright uniforms array’d! But I know a soldier fair, Who is handsome, brave and gay, The ladies faint with love’s complaint When gets in their way. Cuorus—Major Majolica, he is a rollicker, Brave an(| handsome, dashing and gay! He is a stifler, and such a trifler, The Major is “‘ mashing ” the ladies all day. Yes, Major Majolica, he is a rollicker, Brave and handsome, dashing and gay! He is a stifler, and such a trifler, The Major is ‘‘ mashing ” the ladies all day. When cannons go off, he gives a laugh, _ Says, ‘Load ’em, and go it again!” When bullets are thick, he always is quick’ To escape any danger or pain! He draws his sword, says, ‘‘Onward, boys!” And then goes to the rear. The girls would die, or else they’d sigh If they lost the Major dear. (CHORUS.) Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. Copied by permission of Oxrver Drrson & Co., 451 Washington street, Boston, owners of the copyright. Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou, oh Lord, hast power to save; I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall! And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still were mine, Tho’ stormy winds swept o’er the brine, Or tho’ the tempest’s fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death; In ocean cave still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality; _ And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep. — THE SINGER’S LIBRARY 7 Down by the Surging Sea. Copied by permission of Gro. W. RicHarpson & Co., 256 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright. Music and wor ‘ds, 35 cents. I’m in love with the fairest of creatures, Romantic, bewitching and sweet, With blue eyes and “‘ classical features,” To gaze upon her is a treat; I met her last summer at Leng Branch, While walking alone by the sea, And my heart beat with fondest emotion, The moment she smiled upon me. CHorus—She’s a gem of the very first water, A rich man’s only daughter; Where we first met, I shall never forget, *Twas down by the surging sea. On the white sand we rambled and chatted, Her voice sounding sweet as the bird’s, Her soft hand I pressed and I patted, While whisp’ring the fondest of words; Our love ev’ry day it grew stronger, Sweet visions of joy I could see; My life will be lonely no longer, My darling will share it with me. (CHoRvs.) Tho’ the sweet summer days have departed, Our love is as fervent and true, As when on the sea-shore we parted, Exchanging a sweet kiss or two; Her image seems ever before me, For me there’s a treasure in store; She has promised forever to love me, I’m sure I could ask nothing more. (CHORUS.) I Will Stand by My Friend. Published by E. H. Harpina, 229 Fonts New York. Music and words, cents. As on we go through life’s career, How many have to rough it, While one gives us a friendly hand, A dozen try to buffet; Still let’s be faithful where we can, A helping hand to lend, My maxim is that come what may, I will stand by my friend, My maxim is that come what may, I will stand by my friend. When well to do in life, we all A ready welcome get, It’s ‘“‘ How do you do, to-day, my boy?’ “Tm glad that we have met;” But if in our career through life, Bad luck does us attend, How few will give a hand and say, I will stand by my friend, How few will give a hand and say, I will stand by my friend. A friend in need, is one indeed, His heart and hand he lends, How different where we have to say, Oh, save us from our friends; With many, friendship’s but a name, No sympathy they lend, They bid good-day but never say, I will stand by my friend, They bid good-day but never say, I will stand by my friend, Things That Never Die. (Copied by permission of Frrra, Ponp & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., owners of the copyright. The pure, the bright, the beautiful, That stirred our hearts in youth, The impulse to a wordless prayer, The dreams of love and truth: ‘The longings after something lost, The spirit’s yearning cry, The striving after better hopes, These things that never die. The timid hand stretched forth to aid A brother in his need, The kindly word in grief’s dark hour, That proves the friend indeed; The plea for mercy softly breathed When justice threatens nigh, The sorrow of a contrite heart, These things shall never die. The memory of a clasping hand, The pressure of a kiss, And all the trifles sw eet and frail, That make up love’s first bliss; If, with a firm, unchanging faith, "And holy trust and high, Those hands have clasped, those lips have met, These thing shall never die. The cruel and the bitter word That wounded as it fell, The chilling want of sympathy We feel but never tell; The hard repulse that chills the heart, Whose hopes were bounding high, In an unfading record kept, These things shall never die. Let nothing pass, for every hand Must find some work to do; Lose not a chance to waken love, Be firm, and just, and true; So shall a light that can not fade, Beam on thee from on high, And angel voices say to thee, These things shall never die, LIST’NING ON THE HILL. Published by E. H. Harpine, 229 Bowery, New York. Music and words, 10 cents. Singing thro’ each woodland nook, Softly went the gale, While the never silent brook, Carol’d down the dale; Building in the greening brake, Sung the birds all day, Dawn of sunshine seem’d to wake Ev’ry voice of May! Ev’ry voice of May! “Song of brook or bird is glad, There’s a sweeter still!” Said the lonely shepherd lad, List’ning on the hill. Said the lonely shepherd lad, List’ning on the hill, List’ning on the hill! O’er the dewy meadow-ground, Came a happy voice, As it seem’d, with all around Seeking to rejoice; Flash’d the early morning shine On the clinking pail, Marg’ry to the lowing kine Sung adown the dale! Sung adown the dale! “Song of brook or bird is glad, ete. In the Wild Chamois’ Track, In the wild chamois’ track at the breaking of morn, With a hunter’s pride, O’er the mountain’s side, We are led by the sound of the Alpine horn, Tra la la la la Ja Ja Ja Ja la. T have crossed the proud Alps, I have sailed down the Rhone, And there is no spot. Like the simple cot, And the hill and the valley I call’ my own, Tra Ja la la la la la la la Ja. THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. ee ~~ Of What is My Darling Dreaming? Published by E. H. Harprne, ee: New York. Music and words, 0 cents Of what is my darling dreaming, As he smiles, asleep, on my knees? Have the toys, all scatter’d around him, Become like realities? Does he see them move, does he hear them speak? And is it the wonder which flushes his cheek? Is it the wonder which flushes his cheek? And I, when I lie sleeping, T dream of my living toy! And | see him advane’d to manhood, But simple and pure as my boy; And I almost seem glad to grow feeble and old, His love is so tender, his heart is so bold! His love is so tender, his heart so bold. And I have my day-dream visions, Which he will not know for years, Which resolve themselves as they vanish Into something like pray’rs and tears; As I think of the sleep so dreamless and sweet, Which must come before he and his Father can meet! Which must come before he and his Father can meet. FANNIE GREY. * Well, well, sir, so you’ve come at last! I thought you’d come no more; I waited with my bonnet on, From one till half-past four! You know I hate to be alone, Unsettled where to go; You'll break my heart, I feel you will, If you continue so.” “ Now pray, my love, put by that frown, And don’t begin to scold; You really will persuade me soon Yow re growing cross and old. I only stopped at Grosv’nor gate, Young Fannie’s eye to catch; I won’t, I swear | won't, be made To keep time like a watch!” “Tt took you, then, two hours to bow! Two hours! Take off your hat; I wish you’d bow that way to me; And apropos of that. I saw you making love to her, (You see I know it all,) Isaw you making love to her, At Lady Glossop’s ball.” * Now really, Jane, your temper is So very odd to-day! You jealous, and of such a girl As little Fannie Grey! Make love to her! Indeed, my dear, You could see no such thing; I sat a minute by her side, To see a turquoise ring!” T tell you that I saw it all, The whisp’ring and grimace, The flirting and coquetting, In her little foolish face. Oh, Charles, I wonder that the earth Don’t open where you stand; By the heaven that is above us both, I saw you kiss her hand!” “T didn’t love! or if I did, Allowing that ’tis true, When a pretty woman shows her rings, What can a poor man do? My life, my soul, my darling Jane, I love but you alone; i, I never thought of Fannie Grey— How tiresome she is grown!” “ Put down your hat, don’t take your stick, Now, prithee, Charles, do stay! ‘You never come to see me now, But you long to run away; There was a time, there was a time, You never wished to go; What have I done, what have T done, Dear Charles, to change you so?” *€ Pooh, pooh, my love, I am not changed, But dinner is at eight, And my father’s so particular, He never likes to wait. Good-by.” ‘‘Good-by, you'll come again?’ “Yes, one of these fine days!” “ He’s turned the street, I knew he would, He’s gone to Fannie Grey’s!” he. The Stars and Stripes. Copied by permission of S. T. Gorpon, Music Publisher, New York, owner of the copyright. Rally round the flag, boys, give it to the breeze, That’s the banner we love on the land and the seas; Brave hearts are under it, let the traitors brag, Gallant lads, fire away, and fight for the flag; Their flag is but a rag, ours is the true one, Up with the stars and stripes, down with the new one, Let our colors fly, boys, guard them day and night, For victory is liberty, and God will bless the right. CuHorus—Rally round the flag, boys, give it to the breeze, That’s the banner we love on the land and the seas; Brave hearts are under it, let the traitors brag, Gallant lads, fire away, and fight for the flag. Floating high above us, glowing in the sun, Speaking loud to all hearts of a freedom won, Who dares to sully it, bought with precious blood, Gallant lads, we’ll fight for it, tho’ ours should swell the flood. Raise, then, ‘the banner high, ours is the true one, Up with the stars and stripes, down with the new one, Let the colors fly, boys, guard them day and night, For victory is liberty, and God will bless the right. (CHo.) Tyrants learn to fear it, tremble at its sight, All who sigh for freedom hail it with delight; Freedom and liberty, let the echoes ring, That is what the world wants, that our flag will bring. Raise, then, the banner high, ours is the true one, Up with the stars and stripes, down with the new one, Let our colors fly, boys, guard them day and night, For victory is liberty, and God will bless the right. (CHo.) ——*e [Written for the Srvezr’s LIBRARY.] HOOP-DE-DOO-DEN-DOO. End song. Written by Harry 8. Saraenr. Sung by Jonnny WEBSTER. Tl sing you ’bout a damsel; She lived up on the dump; Her nose was red and so was her head; On her back she had a big hump, Her maiden name was “ Sukey;” Her eyes were squinty gray; I loved this little Venus so, I often had to say: Cxorus—I wish I was a crocodile—her ear I’d quickly chew; I'd like to be a monkey or a bobtailed Kangaroo, I'd put her in a cage with me, And tramp the country through, And hang up at the “‘ Cannibal Isles,” With, Hoop-de-doo-den-doo! She said her dad was wealthy, That he owned a pea -nut stand; So I asked this gal to be my wife, And join the praying band. To the “‘ Gospel Tent ” I took her, When she patronized the tank; And got so full of religion that, She bu’st from what she drank. (CHorUus.) | | ——————————————— eet 6 THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. Dwelling with the Angels. Copied by permission of Gro. W. Ricuarpson & Co., 256 Washington 8t., Boston, owners of the copyright. Words and music, 35 cents. Dwelling with the angels, In love and purity, I’m happy evermore, Allis bright to me; Oh, the homes celestial, Beautiful and fair; With the heav’nly angels, I am happy there. Cuorus—Dwelling with the angels, In love and purity, I’m happy evermore, All is bright to me. Dwelling with the angels, From earth so far away, I’ve now no care or anguish, Allis sunny day. Pd not wish to live now, Where vain mortals roam, With the heav’nly angels Is my happy home. (CHORUS.) Dwelling with the angels, In the realms above, Where the choir are chanting Hymns of praise and love; Oh, it is so blissful, God’s celestial dome, With the heav’nly angels Is my happy home. (CHORUS.) Why do I Weep for Thee? Why do I weep for thee? Weep in my sad dreams, Parted for aye are we, Yes, parted like mountain streams. Yet with me linger still That word, that one last word, Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrill My heart's fond chord, Crorvus—Why do I weep for thee? x” Parted for aye are we, Yes, parted like the mountain streams, Yes, parted, why do I weep for thee? Oh, why do I weep for thee? Qnce, ah! what joy to me to share ‘With thee the noontide hour, Then not a grief nor care Had cankered tho heart's young flower, The sun seems not to shed A radiance o'er me now, Save memory, all seems dead, Bince lost, since lost art thou, (CitoRts.) eter lh pain mame [Written for the Srxczr’s Liprary.] DE FLIP-FLAP NIGS. ” By Harry 8. Sarcent. Performed by Wessrer and Hickey, with im- mense success. Here we darkies am before you, For we’s jist come up from Dixie; And we’s gwine to do our berry best to please; We will sing and dance de same as yore, Upon de old plantation; So watch us while we slide around wid ease. - CHorus—Oh, Lord! Good Lord! what’s de use ob talking, Anodder pair sich nigs dere can’t be found, oh! Rackety, jackety, flipperty flap! ‘We’s made ob ingy-rubber; | So watch us while we bounce ourselves around. ‘ 4 We neber shall forget-de day, We left de old plantation, When dey said dat Massa Lincoln ’d set us free. All de darkies den were happy, For dey ’d longed for ’mancipation, And so we loudly sung de jubilee. (CHORUS.) And no’ we’s gwine to leabe you all, And trabbel back to Dixie; Dough de parting wid you white folks gibs us pain, But we want to seo old massa, And de whole colored creation; And go working in de cotton-fields again. (CHO.) Mother Would Comfort Me. Copied by permission of Sawyer & THompson, Music Publishers, Brook- lyn, owners of the copyright. Wounded and sorrowful, far from my home, Sick, among strangers, uncared for, unknown; Even the birds that used sweetly to sing Are silent, and swiftly have taken the wing; No one but mother can cheer me to-day, No one for me could so fervently pray; None to console me, no kind friends near, Mother would comfort me if she were here, Cuorus—Gently her hand o’er my forehead she’d press, Trying to free me from pain and distress; Kindly she’d say to me, “ Be of good cheer, » Mother will comfort you, mother is here!” If she were with me I soon would forget My pain and my sorrow, no more would I fret; One kiss from her lips, or one look from her eye, Would make me contented and willing to die. Gently her hand o’er my forehead she’d press, Trying to free me from pain and distress; Kindly she’d say to me, ‘‘ Be of good cheer, Mother will comfort you, mother is here!” (Cr URUS,) Cheerfully, faithfully, mother would stay Always beside me, by night and by day; » If I should murmur, or wish to complain, Her gentle voice would soon calm me again. Sweetly a mother’s love shines like a star, Brightest in darkness when daylight’s afar; In clouds or in sunshine, pleasure or pain, Mother’s affection is ever the same, (CHORUS,) ————404- Roses Lie Along the Way. ied, b; n of Onrver Drrson & Co., 451 Washington t bs ites re owners of the copyright, een er Roses lie along the way Which our feet are treading, Fortine sends a transient day Free from all we're dreading; Now the youth of pleasure’s wave Light and gay is flowing, Now how soon across his grave Wintry winds are blowing. Full of hope the blushing bride Now the youth is wedding, But how soon the ebbing tide Blight o’er allyis shedding; Pleasure’s day is quickly past, All the good to mortals falling, Chilled like flowers by winter’s blast, Fate is soon recalling. Yet while springtime’s lovely light Sheds its cheerful beaming, / Be by day each pleasure bright, Sweet by night our dreaming; Ev'ry joy that chimes with truth, Let us gladly cherish, So shall smile our age and youth, ‘Till our life shall perish, ae as Many a Time and Oft. _ Published by E. H. Harprne, 229 Bowery, N.Y. Music and words, 10 cents, When the house is still, and the day is done, And the stars are out aloft, I sit by the failing fire alone, And dream of the days that are past and gone, Many a time, many a time and oft! I dream of that village beside the sea, I dream of that seat by the trysting tree, And of one who will never come back to me, never come back to me. I dream of that village beside the sea, I dream of that seat by the trysting tree, And of one who will never come back to me, Ah! many a time, many a time and oft! Then the city is hush’d and the chimes are still, And the voice of the crowd is soft; And the thoughts wander on at their own wild will, And my tears fall fast, and my heart is chill, Many a time, many a time and oft! I dream of the hopes that are faded and fled, Of the vow that is broken, the shaft that is sped, And of one to whom TI forever am dead, forever, forever am dead. I dream of the hopes that are faded and fled, Of the vow that is broken, the shaft that is sped, And of one to whom I forever am dead, Ah! many a time, many a time and oft! [Written for the Smverr’s Liprary.] Charming Blue-Eyed Bess. Written and Sung by E. M. Wasupurn, Comedian, with great applause. I once did court a lovely gal, Her maiden name was Bess, But now we do not speak at all, She’s mad at me I guess; The reason why I can not tell, I always used her right, But a history of this charming belle, I will give to you all to-night. SpoKEN—Yes, she don’t speak to me at all, but passes me by like a stranger, but I will just laugh in my sleeve and sing: CHorus—She’s mad, she’s mad, She’s mad at me I guess, She’s mad at me I guess, She’s mad at me I guess, Without a cause, this charming blue-eyed Bess. The first that I met her Was one evening on the street, I was thunderstruck and couldn’t stir, She looked on me so sweet: She did not pass me coldly by, But bowed low and polite, And I asked her then and there if I Might escort her home that night. Sroxen—Oh, wasn’t we loving that night? I kissed her at the gate, but the last time that I tried to kiss her she slapped me in the face, but I turned on my heel and walked off singing: (CHO.) ‘* Most certainly, kind sir,” said she, “But pray don’t think me bold, I am pleased to have your company—” But the rest must not be told. I did escort her home that night, But I’ve learned to do it less, © For since that night things haven’ t went right, With I and blue-eyed Bess, SpoxEen—I’ve got so I like to sing: (CHorus.) Now for to wind up with my song, About this charming belle, I’m afraid that I have stayed too long, This story for to tell; I loved her, but that love is dead, Tve learned to love her less, : ; Ihave got a girl that I will wed, So good-by blue-eyed Bess ! SpoxEN—Don’t fall in love at first sight, boys, or you may have occasion to sing: (CHORUS.) THE SINGER'S} LIBRARY. Gentle Annie Ray. Copied by permission of Otrver Drrson & Co., 451 Washington street Boston, owners of the copyright. I'm sitting by thy grave to-night, I’m weeping bitter tears, For, ah! stern sorrow’s withering blight Hath dimmed the hopes of years. The smile hath vanished from my brow, My heart is sad to-day; The world is dark and lonely now, My gentle Annie Ray. Cuorus—The smile has vanished from my brow, My heart is sad to-day; The world is dark and lonely now, My gentle Annie Ray. The night-wind sighs around thy tomb, The gentle willows o’er thee weep; The summer flowers in beauty bloom Where thou art laid to sleep. An angel form and sweeter strain Now call my soul away; I know in heaven I’ll meet again My gentle Annie Ray. (CHORUS.) 404 The Landsman’s Song. Oh! who would be bound to the barren sea, If he could dwell on land— Where his step is ever both firm and free, Where flowers arise, Like sweet girls’ eyes, And rivulets sing Like birds in spring? For me—I will take my stand On land, on land! Forever and ever on solid land! I’ve sailed on the riotous roaring sea, With an undaunted band; Yet my village home more pleaseth me, With its valley gay Where maidens stray, And its grassy mead Where the white flocks feed; And so—I will take my stand On land, on Jand! Forever and ever on solid land! Some swear they could die on the salt, salt sea! (But have they been loved on land?) Some rave of the ocean in drunken glee— Of the music born On a gusty morn, When the tempest is waking, And billows are breaking, And lightning flashing, And the thick rain dashing, And the winds and the thunders Shout forth the sea-wonders! —Such things may give joy To a dreaming boy: But for me —I will take my stand On land, on land! Forever and ever on solid land! ——e Come, oh, Come with Me. Come, oh, come with me, the moon is beaming, Come, oh, come with me, the stars are gleaming, All around, above, with beauty teeming, Moonlight hours are meet for love. CHORUS. Fal le lar le lar, fal lar lar lar, fal Je lar le lar, etc., Come, oh, come with me, the moon is beaming, Come, ob, come with me, the stars are gleaming. My skiff is by the shore, she is light and free, To fly the feathered oar is joy to me, And as we glide along, my song shall be, My dearest maid, T love but thee, (Cuorvs.) ~~ The Killarney Fusileers. Copied by permission of E, H. Harvie, 229 Bowery, New York, owner of the copyright. Music and words, 40 cents. Sing about your regular troops! Your guards and all your soldiers; None to beat the Fusileers— Joy and pride of all beholders! With their grand and rollicking style, Which pleases and endears; Famous in the army Are the Killarney Fusileers. Tramp, tramp, away they go! Rattle the drums, the bugles blow! Proud and fierce these soldiers gay, The Killarney Fusileers! Tramp, tramp, tramp away. Cxorus—Oh! sing about your regular troops, Your guards and all your soldiers; None to beat the Fusileers— Joy and pride of all beholders; With their grand and rollicking style, Which pleases and endears; Famous in the army Are the Killarney Fusileers. They’re the boys for gallantry, sure, The terror of the army; Hearts of steel for enemies, all, Hearts so soft for woman’s blarney. They’re the boys so steady and firm, ° That know no fright or fears, On they go in gallant array! The Killarney Fusileers. Tramp, tramp, away they go! Rattle the drums, the bugles blow! Proud and fierce these soldiers gay, The Killarney Fusileers! Tramp, tramp, tramp away. WERRY PEKOOLIAR. Have you ever been in love? if you haven’t I have; To the mighty god Coopid I have been a great slave; He shot in my bosom a quiver of harrows, As naughty boys shoot roosters, robins and sparrows; My heart was as pure as the white alabaster, Till Coopid my bosom did weak overmaster; Ye gods only know how I loved one Miss Julia, There was something about her so werry pekooliar. We met first at a ball, where our hands did entwine, And I did squeech her fingers, and she did squeech mine; To be my next partner I ventured to press her, And I found that she lisped when she answered me, ‘“ Yes, sir;” Now in lisping I think there is something uncommon, I love in pertiklar a lisp in a woman; I’m sure you’d have liked the lisp of Miss Julia, There was something about it so werry pekooliar. Like a beautiful peach was the cheek of my Julia, And then in her eye there was something pekooliar; Speaking wolumes it darted each glance in one’s marrow As swift and as keen as the wicked boy’s harrow; A slight cast in her eye to her looks added vigor, A cast in the eye often tends to disfigure, - But not so the cast in the eye of my Julia, There was something about it so. werry pekooliar. Good friends were we soon, and midst smiles and midst tears, I courted her nearly for three or four years; I took her‘to plays and to balls; oh, ye powers, How swiftly and sweetly did then pass my hours.» But once, oh, e’en now I my feelings can’t smother, She danced all the evening along with another; Now I didn’t say nothing that night to Miss Julia, But I couldn’t help thinking ’twas werry pekooliar. I went next day to scold, when she to my heart’s core Cut me up by requesting I’d call there no more, And I should be affronted if longer I tarried, _ For next day to another she was to be married. “ Oh, Julia,” said I, “‘ why you do not say so!” “Oh, yes, but I do, sir, though! you’d better go.” “ Well, I will go, but surely you'll own it, Miss Julia, Your behavior to me has been werry pekooliar.” 8 THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. Keep This Bible Near Your Heart, Copied by permission of Ox1ver Drrson & Co., 451 Washington street, Boston, owners of the copyright. “Go forth, my darling, to the conflict,” Thus spoke a mother to her boy, “Ne’er let me hear you turned away When traitors threaten our loved country to destroy; Take with you a mother’s blessing, 5 Keep this Bible near your heart, Never forget a mother’s prayers are ever with you, And her love for you will ne’er depart.” CHORUS. All’s well, he sleeps, the orange flowers bloom on his grave, Sadly she weeps for him who died upon the battle-field, Her own loved soldier boy so brave. “Go! for your country’s voice is calling, All stout of heart and strong of hand; How could you nobler die, than fighting bravely For your God and honored native land? And if this is our last parting, If death breaks the loving spell, Trust Him who watcheth e’en the sparrow when it falleth, All is well, ‘He doeth all things well.’” (CHoRUus.) Foremost among the ranks in battle, Stood forth the patriot mother’s joy, Clear o’er the din of muskets’ rattle, Rung the cheering words of that brave soldier boy; Eyes lit up with strangest beauty, Soul that knew no danger near, Firmly he stood amid the harvest death was reaping, With a heart that knew no trembling fear. (CHOo.) But soon the fatal ball came swiftly, Slowly he sunk upon the sod, Faintly he whispered, ‘‘ Dearest mother— Comrades, I shall soon be o’er beyond the flood; Take from out my vest my Bible, Place the treasure in my hand,” One loving look, one gentle quiver, And his spirit took its flight home to the heavenly land. (CHoRUuS. ) ek Et COMME IL FAUT. Published by E. H. Harprne, 7 Pore New York. Music and words, cents. We upper ten, they say, Have not enough to do To pass our time away; By Jove, that can’t be true! With changes ev’ry day New fashions come and go, It’s hard to keep au fait, And still be comme il faut. Cuorus—I’m always comme il faut, Wherever I may go; Ob! yes, success in dress Makes me quite comme il faut. At five o'clock, the Park I promenade ir style, Where beauties, fair and dark, On me bestow a smile; That woman’s hard to please Some poet says, you know; I win their hearts with ease, Because I’m comme il faut. (CHORUS. ) Tho’ oft some lady fair, As through the park I walk, . ( Asks me to take a ehair Close by her side to talk; I must decline the bliss, One can’t sit down, oh! no, In trowsers cut like this, *T would not be ‘‘ comme il faut.” Thus, fashion to obey Is no such light affair, Sometimes I quite give way Beneath such weight of care; But I’m dismay’d at naught, My spirits can’t be low, Tve still the cheering thought That I am ‘comme il faut.” (CHoRUS.) (CHORUS. ) THE SINGER’S LIBRARY. Did You Ever Call Me Darling ? Copied by permission of Gro. W. Ricnarpson & Co., 256 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 35 cents. Did you ever call me darling, With a blush upon your cheek? Know you not my heart thrills ever, To the slightest word you speak? Do you ever guess how pleasant Are the moments spent with you? That this strong, intense affection, Links my soul with all that’s true. Cuorvus—Did you ever call me darling, ‘With a blush upon your cheek? Know you not my heart thrills ever, To the slightest word you speak? Yes, you called me darling, one time, In a tone so sweet, and low, That its music thrills me ever, Cheering me where’er I go. Night was round us, too, and dewy, Fragrant with the summer flowers, And on wings of swiftest fleeing, Sped the bright, entrancing hours. (CHORUS.) For it charm’d and thrill’d me, darling, With supremest happiness, Nor for king with crown or scepter, Would I give that one caress, Your hand mine was fondly clasping, In its grasp my future lay, For a love then sprung to being, Which will never know decay. (CHORUS.) DREAM, BABY, DREAM. Published by E. H. Harpina, 229 Peery: New York, Music and words, cents. Dream, baby, dream, The stars are glowing,. Hear’st thou the stream? Tis softly flowing; All gently glide the hours, Above no tempest lowers, Below are fragrant flowers In silence growing. Sleep, baby, sleep, Till dawn of morrow! Why should’st thou weep, Who know’st not sorrow? Too soon come pains and fears, Too soon a cause for tears, So from thy future years No sadness borrow. Dream, baby, dream, Thine eyelids quiver, Know’st thou the theme Of yonder river? It saith, ‘‘ Be calm, be sure, Unfailing, gentle, pure! So shall thy life endure, Like mine, forever. So shall thy life endure, Like mine, forever,” When My Dreams Come True. Copied by permission of 8. BRAINARD’s Sons, Cleveland, owners of the copyright. Music and words, 30 cents. When my dreams come true, my darling! Naught shall stand between, Y shall be thy lord, my darling, Thou shalt be, shalt be my queen. So all hoping, and all trusting, Here our vows renew, Let us hand in hand be going, When my dreams, my dreams come true. Cuorys—Years may pass, may pass, my darling, Hope they may be few, For I'll marry you, my darling, When my dreams, my dreams come true. What the world can give, my darling, From its land or sea, All shall grace thy home, my darling, — When you marry, you marry me! Gems and pictures, books and laces, Old joys ever new, Can life be too short, my darling, When my dreams, my dreams come true? (CHO.) Are our lives too short, my darling? Is there naught in store? When the years are pass'd, my darling, Are there days, there days no more? Brightest flow’rs and gentlest zephyrs, Skies forever blue, They are ours for aye, my darling, When my dreams, my dreams come true. (CHO.) Oh, Sing to Me Those Dear Old Songs. Copied by permission of Oxrver Dirson & Co., 451 Washington street» Boston, owners of the copyright. Oh, sing to me those dear old songs, Whose tones I love so well, Let music soft and siren touch Awaken mem’ry’s spell; And while my heart retraces swift The footsteps of the past, Full many a sad and pleasant thought Comes crowding thick and fast. Cxorvus—Oh, sing to me those dear old songs, » Whose tones I love so well; Let music’s soft and siren touch Awaken mem’ry’s spell. The loved, the lost of former years Before my vision stand, Some who have gone to distant climes, Some to the better land; But still, the trusted and the tried, A faithful few remain; *Twill cheer their hearts on life’s rough way To hear those songs again. (CHORUS.) Then sing to me the dear old songs, Each word your lips let fall Awakes the thought of other days, At mem’ry’s potent call; And till life’s latest lingering hour, Twill give me untold joy To hear the tones, and feel their power, I owned when but a boy. (CHORUS.) Love and Friendship Still Are Thine. Published by E. H. Harprne, oe Mowers New York. Music and words, cents. Ah! thy smile hath quickly faded, Like a rainbow in the sky; Rankling cares thy brow have shaded, Sorrow’s tear bedims thine eye, Like some flow’r I see thee languish, Drooping where no sun can shine; Could affection soothe thine anguish, All that heart can give were thine, Could affection soothe thine anguish, All that heart can give were thine. Say not all that’s dear hath perish’d, While one hope thy heart retains; From the chain of friends long cherish’d, One fond link at least remains, One glad smile is left to cheer thee, When the joys of life decline; One kind voice is whisp’ring near thee, “Love and friendship still are thine,” » One kind voice is whisp’ring near thee, “Love and friendship still are thine.” SE Serr eeeeSeEeeeeeeeee ES se EOem™” Sigh 4 40 a I’m Coming Home to Die. /’ Copied by on of Otiver Drrson & Co., 451 Washington street, oston, owners of the copyright. Unwelcome winds are sighing, Within the distant west, And wrapt in pain I’m lying, With vision-brokeu rest; I often dream thy bosom Is pillowing my head, And wake, to find illusion Has gathered round my bed; But starting from my dreaming, I check the rising sigh, For I’m coming home to die, mother! V’m coming home to die! I long to see thee, mother, And kiss thy dear old cheek; I feel there is no other With whom I wish to speak; No heart has half such kindness, No voice such music’s flow; Why did I in my blindness, Cause you a moment’s woe? I know you’ve mourned full often, But wipe the glistening eye, For I’m coming home to die, mother! I’m coming home to die! My memory is clinging To childhood’s sunny hours, And sister’s voice seems ringing Amid the garden flowers; The moments seem to lengthen, As starting hour draws near, And hope begins to strengthen, With thoughts of leaving here; So let the heart be gladdened, Our meeting hour is nigh, For I’m coming home to die, mother}! I’m coming home to die! [Written for the Smveur’s Liprary.] SWEET BOY AND GIRL. BY HARRY BURNS, Am —Sweet By-and-By. I will sing of a sweet boy and girl, How together they oftentimes played; He would call her his darling, his pearl, But I could not hear just what she said, Cxorvus— Oh, this sweet boy and girl! "Mong the roses they slyly would meet; Oh, this sweet boy and girl! *Mong the roses they slyly would meet, Boy and girl, boy and girl, ’Mong the roses they slyly would meet. To them life was a beautiful dream, And he told her, this bad, naughty boy, That her kisses were sweeter than cream, Then he took a few samples for joy. (CHORUS.) They would oftentimes wander away, For to stroll on the velvety green, There, embracing each other in play, Such a kissing match never was seen! (CHORUS.) He would navigate over her mouth Till the poor girl was gasping for breath, Still she smiled like the sweet sunny South, For it pleased the poor darling to death. (CHoRUS.) Soon the time for the wedding was set; There was pound cake and lots of champagne; And when no one was looking, you bet, Then of course comes the kissing again. (CHORUS.) They’re now married, this sweet boy and girl; And their cup’s running over with bliss; He still calls her his darling, his pearl, Then he waters her mouth with a kiss. (CHORUS.) ‘ i Se Sa AOR i eS re A THE SINGER'S LIBRARY. pe a Vamp ama aan WILL HE NEVER COME? Will he never come? Never come—no more? Will this long life never cease? And the battle-drum And the cannon’s roar? Im weary, and I sigh for peace— Peace that only in the grave may be;' Will he never come again, Never come to me? Dreaming all the night Of my own, my own; Weeping all the long, long day, Oh! this world of blight! For his missing tone And his tender smile now passed away, Oh! his noble heart this night may be Trodden by harsh feet, and cold, Cold in death, to me! How the guns of brass, Hurling peal on peal, Rend my soul at every crash! Minie balls, alas! Blades of gleaming steel At his precious life, each moment clash, Only held to earth by a slender breath, Why is death so slow to me? Grant my prayer, oh death! On my breast my child, His sweet babe I hold; Hold it till my weak arms ache— Just his blue eye, mild; Just his hair of gold— May it die, for soon this heart must break; May it, ere I die, from earth be free! Then we three shall part no more— Husband, babe—we three, [Written for the Srnemr’s Liprary.] THE EBONY SWELL. BY ‘“‘ KID KLYDE.” _ I's Cuffy E. Wilson frum ole Tennessee; A sweet-looking niggah am I; De medal fur beauty’s bin ’warded to me; To show me my match I defy! My wearing apparel is ob de best kind, And made by de experts as well; De gals dey all t’ink dat I’s really divine, And call me de Ebony Swell. Cuorus—Oh, dey call me de Ebony Swell; Yes dey call me de Ebony Swell; De gals am all sweet on dis niggah so neat, Kase you see I’s de Ebony Swell. A gray colored stove-pipe I wear on my head; Number fourteen boots on my feet; A high choker collar; a nect tie ob red, Makes dis nig appear berry sweet. And while thus attired on the street I then go To enjoy myself a short spell, : De niggabs all cry as their grave stones dey show: “Oh! here comes de Ebony Swell.” (CHorRvs.) Now, one ebening ago, while in a street car, Alone wid a sweet little miss, She looked, oh, so pretty I asked her right dar If she would but give me one kiss. : She opened about sixteen yards ob her mouth, Breathed on me and down I den fell! Den jump’d onto and stamp’d on my lungs And most ruined dis Ebony Swell. (Cuorvus.) ~ £ saad . WARNE, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ ELEGANT EGBERT,” ‘‘TIGER DICK,” ‘'A HARD CROWD,” ‘‘THE KIDNAPPER,” ETC., ETC. CHAPTER I. A BOLD BLOW. -“ Wrorroo, tha-ur! Kape it a-goin, b’ys!” Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap! “ Hyah! hya-a-ah!” Shuffle! shuffle! shuffle! “* Now ye have it—see ye kape it!” Tappity-tap! Tappity-tap! “Gib dis hyar chile room!” Shuff! shuff! shufflety! shuff! “* Owld Oirland furiver! Ballyhoolagan to the fore!” Tappity-tap-tap! Tap! tap! tap! ‘OPar de ribber fur dese hyar Lincum gun-boats! ’Fore de Lo’d, I’s a-comin’!” Shufflety-shuff! shuff! shuff! ‘‘ Wade in thar, you son 0’ darkness, I’ve got a saw-buck up on them bandy legs.” “ All right, massa. Dat saw-buck’s all hunk, fur sure.” “Tl peel ye, if it hain’t.” “Shake them thar brogans lively! My pile’s up on you! Ye shall swim in whisky if ye hold yer own; but not a drop if you Jet Sambo git away with ye.” . “Divil swape the nagur that kin git away wid Bryan o’ Ballyhoolagan!” “You Irish! better shut up dat ’ar clam-trap ‘fore you git me fly-blowed.” “ Stow yer chin-music, an’ ’tend strictly to business. Now, boys, all together!” Pat! pat! pat! pat! A. scene of wildest hilarity, as if Puck, the mischievous sprite, had possessed a score of satyrs. A long, low-ceiled room, with rude tables and benches nailed to the walls, and at the further end a bar, displaying an array of decanters, long-necked black bottles and gob- lets. In the middle of the sanded floor a ‘‘ Frenchman from Cork ” and an American citizen from Dixie had abandoned themselves to the wildest rivalry of break-down and jig. Around were grouped perhaps a score of such specimens of humanity as only the Wild West has produced. Men with beards like tangled brushwood and hair that must have forgotten the very name of comb—woolen shirts that were never washed until their multitudinous insect life or filth became no longer endurable—breeches so begrimed with grease and dirt that they might almost have been mis- taken for leather—‘ stogie” boots, yellow with clay, whose sanctity no brush had ever violated, as rough as oak-bark and as tough as horn. Only one thing about them was ever cleaned—the ‘univer- sal ‘ six-shooter!” These men were patting ‘‘ Juba” in time with the dan- cers, who were vying with each other in the production of the most grotesque attitudes and the wildest antics. On that circle of brutal faces was depicted a ferocious eagerness, which might be received as a fit prefiguration of In their rage these men were devils—in their sport they were devils still. Oaths the most blasphemous burdened every sentence that fell from their lips, and the epithets with which they ad- dressed each other, in their jocularity, were foul beyond de- | scription. . \ The sport was at its hight. The room rung with hoarse _ Janghter, shouts of encouragement, challenges RY i and . iticiems as forcible = ee Hibernia, with his arms akimbo, his hat (the band confin- ing the traditional ‘‘ stump of a pipe ”) set on one side, and his long and bristling upper lip bowed by a confident smile, was shaking leg in a style that would have caused Terpsi- chore some surprise. 2 Dixie had cast his hat on the door in the abandon of en- joyment. His rolling eyes threatened to leap from their sockets. His grin would have made an alligator envious. How his arms and legs retained their attachment to his body was a miracle. This scene was unexpectedly interrupted by a vigorous thumping in the vicinity of the door, and an irascible voice calling . “Pat! Sam! You infernal scoundrels! What are you doing here? Must I run all over the world for you every time the stage stops? Confound you! Pll give you a drub- bing each, if I am annoyed in this way again. Come out of here, I say!” The effect on the dancers was magical. As if operated by the same spring, which had suddenly broken, both stopped at the same instant. Pat straightened his hat om his head, while Sam snatched his up from the floor, and both crouched and drew near to each other in comical dismay. Muttered Pat: “ Divil swape the loike av us!” While Sam cried : ; “ Fore de Lo’d! Dar’s Massa Ilaveland!” With looks of not pleased surprise, the other occupants of the room turned to see who had so unceremoniously inter- rupted their sport. In the doorway stood an elderly gentleman, the cut and cleanliness of whose garments showed that he was from “ the States,” His face was purple with choler, and his eyes fairly snapped between the beetling, grizzled brows. In his hand he carried a heavy cane, with which he again thumped the floor; x Pat!” “ Yis, yer honor.” Pat doffed his hat and held it in both hands, with an air of deprecating humility. ‘‘Fetch your red-headed carcass out of here instantly!” commanded the old gentleman. ‘‘Yis, yer honor,” said Pat, respectfully. Sam, who had crouched behind his fellow-eulprit, out of sight of the old gentleman, leered around at the crowd with a pantomime of a ‘‘ hyah! hyah!” which made him look not unlike the pumpkin with a candle in it which beys call “Jack o’-lantern.” At the same time he patted his own woolly head to draw attention to the opprobrivus reference which had been made to Pat’s “ sorrel-top.” “Red Head! Hyah! hyah!” he whispered, just loud enough for the Irishman to hear him. “May the divil fly away wid me!” began the Celt, below his breath, shaking his fist slyly behind him at the chuckling negro. But a sharp interruption came. “Sam! you black rascal!” Sambo, who from enjoyment of his comrade’s discomfi- ture had felt a strong inclination ts rollon the floor, was now ‘“ fetch-up with a round turn.’ The sudden change of his countenance from the most ex- travagant contortions of mirth to the sober decorum of deep humility and contrition was ludicrous in the extreme. “Yes, Massa Haveland,” he said, in lamblike accents. ‘“Whurroo! you. black Feast!” muttered Pat behind his : hat, and his ecstasy was ill concealed. “Come out of there! If you loiter an instant, Pll use. your woolly pate for a football!” “‘ Woolly pate!” repeated Pat, with malicious relish. “T's a-comin’, Massa Haveland,” said Sam, meekly. But he garg | his tormentor a ae sh on the ne Lee and mut- / tered : $ his cane in readiness. ‘Always-On-Band “‘ Wait till de har’s done growin’ on you’ teef, ‘afore youcrow, Trish!” : At this juncture a burly ruffian stepped between the persons who evidently bore the relationship of master and servants, and said: ‘‘ Hold on hyar! I reckon we'll have a hand in thishyar leetle game. That mill hain’t off that way, nohow ye kin fix it—eh, fellers?” ; “Yer right, boss!” assented one worthy, while a second vouch- safed: “Ef our fun’s g’wine to be sp’iled in this hyar way, I allow we’ll know the reason why.” “Sam! Pat! Come out of there this instant!’ called the irate old gentleman. “Sam! Pat!” mimicked the borderman, “ef you budge a step, Tl let daylight clean through you!” And he drew a “‘six-shooter,” cocked it, and took deliberate aim at the nearest, which happened to be the gentleman of Celtic extraction. ‘“Pard, I’m with ye!” “ Hyar, too!” “Ye don’t leave me out 0’ this leetle game!” “T assist.” “You bhyear my gentle voice?” “ Hoe-cuse me!” With this and similar expressions, nearly half the crowd drew their weapons and pointed them at their luckless entertainers of a moment since. Before this formidable array Bryan o’ Balleyhoolagan “‘ wilted ” —in other words, crumpling his hat between his hands and cant- ing his head to one side, somewhat after the manner of a bashful child, he resorted instinctively to blarney. , “ Ah! sure, gintlemen, yer honors ‘Il turn thim things another way! Faith, yez wouldn’t be afther hurtin’ two poor divils that niver done yez a band’s turn 0’ harrum, at all, at all! Ill swear it’s a good joke ye’re playin’. Ha! ha! ha!” His mechanical laugh was as hoarse as the bark of a jackal, while the grimace which he intended for a propitiatory smile was ludicrous in its white-lipped fear. Every muscle in his body seemed to cringe, and his knees fairly smote together. As for Sambo, he dropped on his marrowbones, and clasped his hands in agonized supplication, shutting his eyes tightly, to hide the death he dared not look upon. ‘Fo’ de lub ob de bressed Lo’d, gemmen,” he pleaded in a quavering voice, ‘‘don’t shoot dis hyar chile! He ain’t fit to die, nohow! De debil shore to git him, pore soul, ef you cut him down like de grass ob de fields. Leabe dis sinnah to de Lo’d’s own time, an’ he’ll speak a good word fer ye in the New Jerus’- lum, shore!” ‘“‘What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded old Mr. Haveland, hotly. “Boss,” said the ruffian who had first interfered, ‘‘ thar’s money up on this shake-leg mill, and it ain’t off, you bet, till the thing’s decided, one way or t’other. You hear me?—Spanish Dave, the Handsome Man! I hails from Idaho, Golden City, Caraboo, an’ surroundin’ country!” : This speech was delivered with a swaggering bravado that ‘would have become a bandit in his mountain fastness. The title of the ‘‘Handsome Man” had been assumed by the fellow in that spirit of sardonic irony sometimes evinced by monsters of ugliness who seem to take a fierce, bitter pride in their disfigure- ment. A livid scar running from the left temple across the nose, to the chin on the opposite side of the face, made Spanish Dave more fiendish than handsome. ‘And do you presume to interfere between me and my ser- vants?” said Mr. Haveland, his heavy stick trembling in his hand, as if it itched to try conclusions with Spanish Dave’s thick skull. “Oh, blow you and your servants!” That insult capped the climax. 5 : The hot-headed old gentleman’s wrath exploded like nitro-gly- cerine. By a lightning stroke of his heavy walking-stick Spanish Dave was stretched stunned and bleeding on the floor. Then a man on whose temples age had hung her silver drapery, armed only with a cudgel, faced a mob, every man of which was armed to the teeth with murderous bowie and “ six-shooter.” CHAPTER II. THE SPORTIVE SPORT. For an instant the boldness of the act held every one spell- bound. They could scarcely realize that the dare-devil had been indeed felled to the earth. _ Then a roar of fury rung through the room, and dark visages scowled black menace. . Mr. Haveland had advanced a few steps into the room, and now from either side partisans of the fallen ruffian leaped for- ward to cut off his retreat at the door. Tn an instant he found himself surrounded by a mob to whom : rder was but a pastime. moupd pas “ Pat! Sam!” he called, standing on the defensive, and holding 4 oe ead, a = lishers, 98 William Street, New York. The opening of the crowd had brought the master and servants within the same circle. In an agony of terror, Sam. crept forward until he could clutch the skirts of his master’s coat. i “ Fo’ de Lo’d’s sake, Massa Haveland, don’t let ’em hurt dis chile, dat’s done skeered to deff! Oh! de good Lo’d sabe dis pore sinnah f’om de raff ob de Philistines, an’ he be good all de rest ob him days, shore!—’clar’ to goodness, he will!” Equally terrified, valiant Bryan o’ Balleyhoolagan had the wit to see that the fury of the mob was wholly directed toward his master; and having no relish for exposing his craven hide unne- cessarily to the danger of perforation, he sought to lose himself among the crowd of assailants. But his meditated retreat was detected and frustrated by one of the bordermen, who offset some of their vices by a healthful contempt for poltroonery. “Git back thar, fur a beggarly sneak that ’ud desart his pards when they’re up to the ears in dirty water!” was the indignant denunciation. And by a vigorous kick in the rear Bryan o’ Balleyhoolagan was hurled forward upon his knees, a “Hold on, pards! Don’t sp’ile my meat,” cried Spanish Dave, who had now so far collected his scattered wits as to perceive the menacing attitude of the crowd toward the man who had knocked him down. With some difficulty the ruffian got on his feet, and stood crouching like a tiger about to spring, and glaring fierce hatred and gloating malignity at his intended victim. His face was purple with rage. His eyes were bloodshot. His huge frame quivered in every nerve. Drawing his bowie-knife from his boot-leg, he ran his finger along the edge and tried its point; while he grinned in sardonic, ghoulish glee. Z “ Ha-ha! Ha-ha! You knocked me down, did ye? You knocked Spanish Dave off his pins! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!” His short, mechanical laugh was blood-curdling, ashe advanced upon the unarmed man with slow, creeping steps. By that murderous assault, the silver-haired old hero must in- evitably have been. beaten down to death, but for a timely inter-- vention. From the doorway came a voice: “When wanted, Iam always on hand! Ha! ha! ha!’ Every eye flashed in the direction of the door, and then those who had been most prominent in the assault, turned away in evident disgust. Their chagrin found expression in low mutterings. “The Sportive, by thunder!” “This jig’s up!” : ‘* The hull doggoned thing’s knocked in the head!” | “Leash yer bull-dogs.” “He don’t stand no foolishness.” i “y pass!” : ‘He kin rake the pile, fur me.” “Dave's got a yarthquake to mount this time.” As for Spanish Dave, though he turned pale, he did not put up his knife. A dull glare of fear and hatred came into his eyes, supplant- ing their murderous glitter of a moment before. Checking all motion, he stared fixedly in the direction whence the mocking voice had proceeded. Seeing that the attention of the bully was now diverted from him, old Jasper Haveland turned to see what manner of man had come so opportunely and so effectively to his aid. In the doorway stood a man of perhaps five feet ten in stature, symmetric#l in build, with muscular limbs, tapering at the ex- tremities, appended to a trunk whose slender waist and deep chest indicated a compact yet strong organism. In feature he was comely, a gracefully curving mustache giv- ing him a rather aristocratic appearance. He had the clear eye and confident bearing’ of a man who had never known a fear. He did not affect the long hair and sombrero - like hat with which the ‘‘ Knights of the Plains” vot infrequently . seek to distinguish their persons, in unconscious imitation of old England’s cavaliers; nor in his dress was there anything “loud.” i His attitude, however, was evidently studied for effect. He stood resting his right wrist in the hoHow of the left, so that the open palm of his left hand flanked the blue steel barrel of the revolver which he held in his right. Across the palm was traced the word ‘‘ Always!” Its significance was evident— “ Always on Hand.” / Along the barrel of the pistol ranged an eye which was pierc- i ' “ing, notwithstanding the twinkle of mocking mirth with which it rested on the startled bully. s “Always on Hand; or, the Sportive Sport of the Foothills,” the most thrilling tale of the wild West ever written, will be pub- _ lished, complete, in BEADLE’s — Liprary No. 54, for sale by all newsdealers in the United States and Canada, or sent post- paid, on receipt of twelve cents, by BrapLe & ADAMS, Pub- — Beadle’s Half-Dime and Dime Library. ba Welln lal Mnf lalla allel ib : ae Same anaes EEE ECEeLeeeLrTr eine Patent-leather Joe: oR, OLD RATTLESNAKE, the CHARMER. és This thing hain’t played out yet. A go’sa go; and you’ve got to stand to tail Site pulses LOU: hear me—I"lash Lightning, miner and prospector!” Everybody looked surprised, and then smiled. The bold challenger was a boy of not more than seventeen years of age. As he spoke, he drew a pistol.and cocked it in immediate readiness for use. Patentloathér J mye - his young ee od ts x ru what do you mean?” h ad. ‘ ; «Cased the yon, egielosaly, “T’ve just give you my handle—Flash Lightning, miner and prospector, That’s whol am, And I mean business ! ss ; 3 “Patent-leather Joe; or, Old Rattlesnake, the Charmer,” is published, complete, in Beadle’s Half-Dime Library No. 67, for sale by all newsdealers in the United States and Canada, or sent. portrait, on receipt of six cents, by BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, No. 98 William Street, New York. OTHERS NOW READY. 4 Drapwoop Dick, Tue Prrce or THE Roap | 20 Toe Doupte Daaerrs. 2 YELLOWSTONE JACK. 21 FRONTIER ANGEL, 3 Kansas Kina. 22 THE SEA SERPENT. 4 Tar Wiip-Horsr Honrers. 23 Nick o’ Tue Nieur. 5 VAGABOND JOE. 24 DiamMonp “Dirk. 6 Bru Brppon, TRAPPER. 25 Tue Boy _Caprain. 7 Tor Fiyina YANKEE. 26 CLoveN Hoor, tHe Demon. 8 Sera Jones. 27 AnreLorEe ABE, Tan Boy GUIDE. 9 Tum ADVENTURES or BARON MuncHavsen, | 28 Burrato Bun, THE Prince OF THE PIsToL. 10 Nat Topp, 29 Tas Dumps Pace. 11 Tue Two Drrecrives. a wosneee RateH Rockwoon, 2 Pe ; BEN-KNIFE, B See 382 Bos Woorr, THe BorpER RUFFIAN. 14 ALADDIN. 83 Tae OckAN BLoopHOUND. 15 Tum Sra Car. 34 Onmcon Son. 16 Roninson Orvuson. 85 Winp Ivan, tHE Boy CuaupE DuvaL, 17 Raupw Roy, Tur Boy Buccanrmr. 86 Tum Boy Clown. i 18 StnpBAD THE SaILor. 37 Tue Hiprn Loner. 19 THe Puanrom Spy. 88 Nep WyLpr. 89 DeaTu-Facr, THE DetTectivn,! 52 THe Ware Burrao. 40 Rovine Ben. 53 Jim Buupsox, JR. 41 Lasso JACK. 54 Nep Hazen, 42 Tae PHanrom Miner. | 55 Dmapiy-Eyg, 43 Dick DarLiIne, THE Pony Ex- 56 Nick Wurrr.es’s Per. 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