Beadle's Dime Song Book No. 1 / A Collection of New and Popular Comic and Sentimental Songs
Gentle Annie
Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie —
Like a flower thy spirit did depart;
Thou art gone, alas! like the many,
That have bloom’d in the summer of my heart.
Shall we never more behold thee,
Never hear thy winning voice again,
When the spring time comes, gentle Annie,
When the wild flowers are scattered o’er the plain?
We have roam’d and loved ’mid the bowers,
When thy downy cheeks were in bloom;
Now I stand alone ’mid the flowers,
While they mingle their perfumes o’er thy tomb.
Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
Near the silent spot where thou art laid,
And my heart bows down when I wander
By the streams and the meadows where we stray’d.
Nelly Gray
There’s a low green valley on the old Kentucky shore,
There I’ve whiled many happy hours away,
A sitting and a singing by the little cottage door
Where lived my darling Nelly Gray.
Oh, my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away,
And I’ll never see my darling any more,
I’m sitting by the river and I’m weeping all the day,
For you’ve gone from old Kentucky shore.
When the moon had climb’d the mountain, and the stars were shining too,
Then I’d take my darling Nelly Gray,
And we’d float down the river in my little light canoe —
While my banjo sweetly I would play.
Oh, my poor Nelly Gray, &c.
One night I went to see her, but she’s gone, the neighbors say,
The white man bound her with his chain —
They have taken her to Georgia for to wear her life away,
As she toils in the cotton and the cane.
Oh, my poor Nelly Gray, &c.
My canoe is under water, and my banjo is unstrung,
I’m tired of living any more:
My eyes shall look downward, and my songs shall be unsung
While I stay on old Kentucky shore.
Oh, my poor Nelly Gray, &c.
My eyes are getting blinded and I can not see my way,
Hark! there’s somebody knocking at the door:
Oh, I hear the angels calling, and I see my Nelly Gray;
Farewell to the old Kentucky shore.
Oh, my Nelly Gray, up in heaven there they say
That they’ll never take you from me any more:
I’m a coming, coming, coming, as the angels clear the way,
Farewell to the old Kentucky shore.
Poor Old Slave
’Tis just one year ago to-day,
That I remember well,
I sat down by poor Nelly’s side
A story she did tell;
’Twas about a poor, unhappy slave
That lived for many a year;
But now he’s dead and in his grave,
No master does he fear.
Chorus.– The poor old slave has gone to rest,
We know that he is free;
Disturb him not, but let him rest,
Way down in Tennessee.
She took my arm, we walk’d along
Into an open field,
And here she paused to breathe awhile,
Then to his grave did steal.
She sat down by that little mound,
And softly whisper’d there,
“Come to me, father, ’tis thy child,”
Then gently dropp’d a tear.
But since that time, how things have changed,
Poor Nelly that was my bride,
Is laid beneath the cold grave-sod,
With her father by her side.
I planted there upon her grave,
The weeping-willow tree,
I bathed its roots with many a tear,
That it might shelter me.
A Thousand a Year
Robin Ruff. —
If I had but a thousand a year, Gaffer Green —
If I had but a thousand a year,
What a man would I be, and what sights would I see,
If I had but a thousand a year.
Gaffer Green. —
The best wish you could have, take my word, Robin Ruff,
Would scarce find you, in bread or in beer;
But be honest and true, say what would you do,
If you had but a thousand a year.
Robin Ruff. —
I’d do – I scarcely know what, Gaffer Green,
I’d go – faith, I scarcely know where;
I’d scatter the chink, and leave others to think,
If I had but a thousand a year.
Gaffer Green. —
But when you are aged and gray, Robin Ruff,
And the day of your death it draws near,
Say, what with your pains, would you do with your gains
If you then had a thousand a year?
Robin Ruff. —
I scarcely can tell what you mean, Gaffer Green,
For your questions are always so queer;
But as other folks die, I suppose so must I, —
Gaffer Green. —
What! and give up your thousand a year?
There’s a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, —
And I hope in my heart you’ll go there, —
Where the poor man’s as great though he hath no estate,
Ay,