HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY

FROM

THE BEQUEST OF

EVERT JANSEN WENDELL 1918

31-195

37

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.

IF Prefaces were read-and it is no fiction to suppose they are not-a compilation of songs like the present calls for no particular remark beyond the simple statement, that they comprise most of the popular lyrics of the United States. Of course it would be an easy task to trace back the records of the old colonial times, and inquire about the songs of the early settlers; whether the Puritans at Plymouth or the Quakers in Pennsylvania sung; and if so, what were their songs. We can readily imagine that their vocalism was rather restricted, or if they did venture to warble, the old-fashioned English songs of the period naturally rose to their lips.

Exchange is no robbery-goes the phrase. For many years, in song as in other departments of literature, the United States looked for their supply to the "mother country;" and now, to judge by the popularity of "Woodman, Spare that Tree," "Ben Bolt," the lyrics of Longfellow, and the frequency with which the ear is assailed with those terrible concoctions of vulgarity and commonplace tune-"Bobbing Around" and "Keemo Kimo" (which every boy in London feels it his duty to whistle), it is fair to imagine that the mother country has condescended to borrow somewhat from the son; though we are bound to say that, with rare exceptions, the adopted material is anything but creditable to John Bull's taste and sense of musical propriety.

How little Fenno Hoffman is known in England; how many persons in the United Kingdom ever heard of Mrs. Osgood, Judge Conrad, General Morris, J. G. Percival,-and yet all of these writers have distinguished themselves in lyric authorship. The truth seems to be, that American songs grow popular on this side of the ocean, not because they possess poetic excellence or harmonious melody. The more refined the production, the more slender its chances of becoming known, while some jingling tomfoolery dashed with a spice of quaintness is in the mouth of the whole nation. Abundant illustrations of the truth of this statement are afforded in the universality of the "Dan Tuckers" and "Uncle Neds" of past times, the versification of which would disgrace the puerile muse of the dullest of schoolboys.

The Editor, in conclusion, begs to hope that this collection will prove to the English reader that American writers can achieve something superior to "Old Dog Tray" and the other feeble stupidities that the public receive as "American songs," though this volume (purporting to contain the popular songs of the United States) would scarcely be complete were this class of composition wholly omitted.

The Book of American Songs.

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

MARY WILL SMILE.

W. CLIFFTON. Born 1772; died 1799.
THE morn was fresh, and pure the gale,
When Mary, from her cot a rover,
Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale,
To bind the temples of her lover.
As near his little farm she stray'd,
Where birds of love were ever pairing,
She saw her William in the shade

The arms of ruthless war prepáring:
"Though now," he cried, "I seek the hostile plain,
Mary shall smile, and all be fair again."

She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried,
"Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger,
Desert thy Mary's faithful side,

And bare thy life to every danger?
Yet, go, brave youth! to arms away!

My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee,
And when the drum beats far away,

I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee.
Return'd with honour from the hostile plain,
Mary will smile, and all be fair again.
"The bugles through the forest wind,
The woodland soldiers call to battle;
Be some protecting angel kind,

And guard thy life when cannon's rattle."
She sung and as the rose appears

In sunshine, when the storm is over,
A smile beamed sweetly through her tears-
The blush of promise to her lover.
Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain,
All shall be fair, and Mary smile again.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.

MES. MARIA BROOKS. Born 1812; died 1845.*

DAY, in melting purple dying,
Blossoms, all around me sighing,
Fragrance from the lilies straying,
Zephyr with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress;

I am sick of loneliness.

* Mrs. Brooks, as one of the early American writers, merits a few words of mention. She is the authoress of the celebrated poem "Zophiël," that appeared in London in 1833, under the patronage of Robert Southey. Curiously enough, it was written in a rapid manner, in a variety of climate and country, the first canto appearing in Boston in 1824. The second canto was finished in Cuba, the third in Quebec, the fourth and fifth in Paris, and the sixth in England about the year 1830. Mrs. Brooks passed the spring of the following year at Keswick, the home of the poet Southey, who was an attached and honoured friend, and who corrected the proofsheets of Zophiël previous to its appearance in London. On leaving Keswick, Mrs. Brooks addressed to the bard the following poem, and (we quote Griswold) the subsequent correspondence between the two poets, which I have seen, shows that the promise of continual regard was fulfilled:

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
OH! laureled bard, how can I part,
Those cheering smiles no more to see,
Until my soothed and solaced heart
Pours forth one grateful lay to thee?"
Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath,
And peace and pleasure bless thee now;
For love and beauty guard the wreath
That blooms upon thy manly brow.
The Indian, leaning on his bow,

On hostile cliff, in desert drear,

Casts with less joy his glance below,

When comes some friendly warrior near;

The native dove of that warm isle

Where oft, with flowers, my lyre was drest,
Sees with less joy the sun awhile,

When vertic rains have drenched her nest,

Than I, a stranger, first beheld

Thine eye's harmonious welcome given
With gentle word, which, as it swelled,
Came to my heart benign as heaven.

Soft be thy sleep, as mists that rest

On Skiddaw's top at summer morn;
Smooth be thy days as Derwent's breast,
When summer light is almost gone!
And yet, for thee, why breathe a prayer
I deem thy fate is given in trust
To seraphs, who by daily care

Would prove that Heaven is not unjust.
And treasured shall thine image be

In memory's purest, holiest shrine,
While truth and honour glow in thee,
Or life's warm, quivering pulse is mine.