You are going far away
Far away from your Jeannette;
'There's no one left to love me now,
And you too may forget;
But my heart will still be with you,
Wherever you may go,
Can you look me in the face
And say the same, Jeannot?
When you wear the jacket red,
And the beautiful cockade,
I fear that you will then forget
The promises you've made;
With your gun upon your shoulder,
And your bayonet by your side,
You'll be taking some proud lady,
And be making her your bride.
When glory leads the way,
You'll be madly rushing on,
Never thinking, if they kill you,
My happiness is gone;
Should you win the day, perhaps
A general you'll be,
Though I should be proud to hear it,
What would become of me?
Oh! were I Queen of France, or
What's better, Pope of Rome,
I'd have no fighting men abroad,
No weeping maids at home;
All the world should be at peace,
And should kings assert their right,
I'd have those that make the quarrel
Be the only men who fight."
I'd be a Gipsy, merry and free,
Roving abroad, like a bird or a bee;
Nought to control me, sportive and wild,
All through the summer day free as a child.
What are the bright halls of splendour and pleasure?
What the saloons of the brilliant and gay?
They cannot render the life-giving treasure
That freedom and health to the Gipsy convey.
I'd be a Gipsy, &c.
I'd be a Gipsy, 'neath the blue sky,
Tinged with the stars that shine brightly on high, The turf for my pillow, and all the night long Lull'd to repose by the nightingale's song; Roving all day where the merry band wander'd, Telling the fate of the brave and the fair,
Shunning the world and the wealth that is squander'd, With just coin enough to be free as the air.
See yon happy, rosy boy,
Full of life and full of joy,
Smiling now with mirth elate!
Swinging on the rustic gate.
Care with him was never known,
Joyful hours are all his own,
Chief in every rural play,
Laughing mates his voice obey;
Woodland scenes are his delight,
There he rules in sylvan might,
Leading merry games with glee,
Happy as a king is he.
Monarchs of another sphere
Have their hours of hope and fear,
Troubles come to mar their reign,
Bringing sorrow in their train.
Stately pomp disturbs their ease,
Though they strive they fail to please;
Such is not our hero's fate
Swinging on the rustic gate:
Form and pride, with him unknown,
Never cloud his sylvan throne;
Thus the world may truly see
Happier than a king is he.
[Music by JOHN WHITTAKER.
Hurrah for merry Christmas,
Though his days be chill and drear,
I greet his coming gaily
For his good old English cheer.
Though his icy hand hath driven
The leaves from every tree,
When the sturdy oak is riven,
The holly branch for me!
The holly branch it clusters
Its berries bright and red
When the flowers of the forest,
Fair, fragile things, are dead.
But I mourn not simple flowers,
However bright they be,
Since they fade with summer hours;-
The holly branch for me!
The holly branch it lingers,
Unmov'd by wintry blast,
When all its gay companions
Like summer buds have passed.
Then let us hope our friendships
As durable may be;-
Hurrah! for merry Christmas,
The holly branch for me!
[Music by J. R. STEVENS.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore-
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of wee
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
BRIGHTLY SMILE AND SWEETLY SING.
[Music by STEPHEN GLOVER.
The roses last their little day,
Yet smile to greet the sun;
The birds sing gaily on the spray,
Though brief the course they run.
Since; then, life's not an endless spring,
And youth's an April day,
Why brightly smile and sweetly sing
Life's summer time away!
The earth has nothing fair or bright
From which no blessings fall;
Should we its countless treasures slight
Because they're shared by all?
We cannot bid Time stay his flight,
But clip his plumes we may,-
Then brightly smile and sweetly sing
Life's summer time away.
THE MEETING OF SPRING AND SUMMER.
[Music by S. GLOVER. The bud is on the bough again,
The leaf is on the tree;
The stream hath burst its icy chain,
And sings because 'tis free;
The south wind bears upon its wing
The breath of many flowers;
And rosy, laughter-loving Spring
Leads on the merry hours.
I long to meet the sun's warm glow,
To breathe the pure, free air;
To feel the wind upon my brow,
Or flaunting with my hair.
Sweet May-the balmy, hopeful May,
The darling of the year,
The mother of the blossoms gay
Will soon be smiling here;
The Earth will be a garden vast,
With day by day new charms,
Till gentle Spring shall fall at last
In blooming Summer's arms.
Then heed not whose the woods may be,
Nor whose the fields and flowers;
For while to you and I they're free,
We'll rove and think them ours.
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