Good night, sweet mother: call me
Before the day is born,-
All night I lie awake, but
I fall asleep at morn:
But I would see the sun rise
Upon the glad new-year,-
So, if you're waking, call me,
Call me early, mother dear.
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"
To Tubal Cain came many a one
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!
And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain
For the evil he had done.
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind;
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, "Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man !"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he sang," Hurrah for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air-
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship join'd their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall
And plough'd the willing lands;
Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword."
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
Ilis hair is crisp, and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door-
They love to see the flaming forge
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits amongst his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice;
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise ;
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies,
And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose,
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus, at the flaming forge of life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed, each thought.
[Music by F. W. N. CROUCH.
Kathleen, mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill;
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,
Kathleen, mavourneen, what, slumbering still!
Oh! hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever!
Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part!
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Oh! why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart!
Kathleen, mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers,
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light;
Ah! where is the spell that once hung on thy numbers,
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night.
Mavourneen, mavourneen, my tears are fast falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part!
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then why art thou silent, thou joy of my heart!
THE OLD SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER.
Oh! do you remember the old soldier's daughter?
Fair as the morning in spring time was she,
And many a lover all vainly had sought her-
To all she was distant as maiden may be.
"Dear father," she cried, "with thee let me tarry,
Though lowly our cottage, a home 'tis to me;
A vow I have made that I never will marry,
Oh! let me live happy, dear father, with thee."
But vain was the vow of the old soldier's daughter:
Young Patrick he woo'd her, though humble was he,
He knelt at her feet, to his bosom he caught her,
And whisper'd, "Oh! say when our bridal shall be."
"Dear father," she cried, "twere a pity to tarry,
A cow and a cottage has Patrick for me;
So dearly he loves me, I'm tempted to marry,
And both will be happy, dear father, with thee."
And calm was the home of the old soldier's daughter-
Her Patrick beside her, her babe on her knee;
The aged they bless'd, and the youthful they sought her,
For none were so cheerful, so happy as she.
And fain was the soldier beside her to tarry,
Till death gently called him, then calmly slept he. She still bless'd the day she was tempted to marry, Saying, "Patrick, thou'rt now all the world, love,
I LOVE A DEAR OLD COUNTRY FACE. J. E. CARPENTER.] [Music by N. J. SPORLE.
I love a dear old country face,
Well brown'd with wind and sun;
For in those features I can trace
Life's task was bravely done.
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