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Read Ebook: Life of Lord Byron Vol. 3 With His Letters and Journals by Moore Thomas

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Ebook has 974 lines and 125338 words, and 20 pages

CLOWN SONG BOOK.

IN A SNUG LITTLE HOME OF YOUR OWN.

Words and music by Felix McGlennon.

What are the fashions and follies of life! Only an empty dream; Only a burden of struggle and strife. As we drift adown the stream. A fig for your worldly pleasures, How very soon they cloy, But there 'mongst your sweet home treasures, You can find purest joy!

CHORUS.--In a snug little home of your own, A snug little home of your own, With smiling faces 'round, True happiness is found, In a snug little home of your own.

Seeking excitement, you often may go Out with the busy throng, And like a butterfly flit to and fro, As you sing a worldly song; When pleasure's bright flame is burning, Into the blaze you fly, And then from temptation turning, For purer life you sigh.--CHORUS.

When honest love in your heart finds a place, Bright as the sun's your life; Plans for the future, in fancy you trace, With a sweet and pure young wife, You're hopefully, tenderly gazing Into futurity-- Bright castles in the air you're building, Thinking when you will be--CHORUS.

A DEAR LITTLE FACE AT THE WINDOW.

Written and composed by Charles L. Miller.

When homeward I stray at the close of the day, So wearied with labor and care, My heart soon grows light, with the vision so bright, Of the face that is waiting me there, As she stands in the window with mother close by, Who softly strokes each little curl; And soon as she sees me, so gladly she'll cry, My own little dear baby girl!

CHORUS. 'Tis a dear little face at the window, With a smile and a heart full of glee; More precious than pearl, is my dear baby girl, Who waits at the window for me!

How often I've thought of the joy she has brought, To home and to mother and me, Of one tearful day, when in sickness she lay, And we missed her sweet laughter so free, But the kind angels left her to our care and love, To brighten our home here below; And naught here on earth, or in Heaven above, Can equal our treasure, I know!--CHORUS.

I DO LOVE YOU!

Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.

Molly has climbed on her Dada's knee, Molly has something to say; Only to whisper "I love you, Dad, And think of you all the day! When you go out in the morning, Dad, Ah, how I long for the night; Then you come home to your Molly dear, And the house seems so cheerful and bright."

CHORUS. I do love you, I do love you, You've bought a dolly for your little Molly with hair so bright and eyes so blue; I'll give you a kiss, a sweet little kiss, and may be I'll give you two! Oh, my Daddy, my dear old Daddy, I do love you!

Molly has climbed on his shoulders broad, "Let us play horses, my Dad!" See how they scamper around the house, And Molly is oh, so glad! Slyly she peeps in his pockets then, Thinking that Dad cannot see; Ah, the young rogue knows there's something there, And Molly is laughing with glee.--CHORUS.

Molly is tired of her romp at last, Dada must take her to bed, "Place little dolly beside me, please," Now Molly her prayers has said. "Good-night, God bless you, my Dada dear, Kiss me, and kiss dolly too; I know you love little Molly, Dad, And you know that your Molly loves you."--CHORUS.

TO ERR IS HUMAN, TO FORGIVE DIVINE!

Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.

Craving, craving for pity, a brother stands Before the brother he wronged in days gone by; "Help me, help me, forgive all the painful past, I'm starving, brother, oh help me, or I die!" One is poor and lowly, one has shining gold, The wealthy brother looks with scornful eyes, Will he help the suppliant, will he e'er forgive? Oh! hearken to his words as he replies:

CHORUS. "I once was poor and struggling, you were honored in the land, I once was nearly starving, you had riches at command, I went to you so humbly, and I asked a helping hand, In my face you closed your door, oh, brother mine! Now I am rich and you are poor, shall I revengeful be? No! for the sake of old times when we prayed at mother's knee, You're still my brother, I'll forgive, share my prosperity, To err is human, to forgive divine!"

Brooding, brooding, alone in a darkened room, A poor old father is mourning for his child; Sadly, sadly, he thinks of the daughter fair, Who by the tempter from home had been beguiled. His eyes grow hot with tears, his heart grows hot with rage, He thinks of how the base betrayer came; A knock! the door is opened, his erring child is there, And to the floor she sinks in abject shame.

CHORUS. "Begone and quit my sight," he cries in accents stern and grim, "You've streaked my hair with grey that day you fled away with him, You broke your poor old mother's heart, her eyes in death are dim, Begone, you are no longer child of mine!" But his heart goes back with anguish to the child that he loved best, The daughter fair and stainless ere she left the parent nest, And for her dear dead mother's sake he clasps her to his breast, To err is human, to forgive divine!

Stitching, stitching, in poverty and in pain, A woman's toiling to earn her children bread; Daily, hourly, the needle ne'er seems to tire, Ah! slaves must work and their children must be fed. See her drunken husband, staggering in the room, "Curse you, give me money, I must drink! Come, now give the money, money, quick I say!" A blow, a kick, unconscious see her sink.

CHORUS. In drink besotted madness he rains on her kicks and blows, Till she lies there slowly dying, soon will end her earthly woes, And she feebly murmurs, "Harry, oh it darker, darker grows!" Then she babbles of the love of "Auld Lang Syne." Crash! the officers of justice burst the door into the room, Will she speak the word and send her husband to a murd'rer's doom? No! she loves still and silent bears her secret to the tomb-- To err is human, to forgive divine!

DON'T BEAR ANY ILL FEELING.

When your angry passions rise, there's a maxim you should prize, "Never let the sun go down upon your wrath," Let your quarrels fade away ere there dawns another day, Let the sun of peace and love illume your path. It may be the friend of years who has grieved you with his sneers, And your temper may the flame of hate have fanned, But the promptings of your heart will compel you ere you part, To say, as you extend a friendly hand:

CHORUS. Don't bear any ill feeling, forget and forgive, Shake hands, let us be friendly as long as we live, Life is too short for hatred, shake hands and don't say "Nay," Or you may plead for forgiveness yourself in vain some day.

You may have a faithful wife, who is dearer far than life, Yet an angry word may rankle in her heart, Then your passions rise and rise, till the tears come in her eyes, And with hardened hearts you both decide to part, But a calm comes o'er the strife, as you gaze upon your wife, And your tho'ts go back to years of love and bliss, To the partner true and tried, ever faithful by your side, And you both plead for forgiveness with a kiss.--CHORUS.

BACK TO THE OLD HOME AGAIN.

There's a place that will ne'er be forgotten by me, 'Tis the cottage wherein I was born, And though years have rolled on, yet in fancy I see It there 'mid the tall waving corn. 'Twas humble, 'twas lowly, but ah! it contained My nearest and dearest on earth, And where'er I go, I am longing to be Once more in the home of my birth.

CHORUS.--Back to the old home again, Down in the country lane, Back to the spot I've never forgot, Back to the old home again.

The green ivy clustered around the old walls, The breath of sweet flowers filled the air, The birds built their nests in the cosy thatched roof, Their songs drove away every care; I'd roam through the meadows, I'd climb o'er the hill, In childhood's sweet innocent glee, My life was all sunshine, no sorrow or care, Oh, how I am longing to be: --CHORUS.

I've seen many lands, but no place seemed so fair As that dear little old-fashioned cot, I've made many friends, but my dear parents' love I've never, no, never forgot. They're anxiously waiting to welcome me home-- They're eager their fond love to show-- I'm tired of the wand'rings and trials of life, And so once again I will go: --CHORUS.

A BUNCH OF SHAMROCK FROM MY DEAR OLD MOTHER.

Words and music by Monroe H. Rosenfeld.

One day there came to me from far across the sea, A letter and its words I read with tears, It brought a gem so dear my lonely heart to cheer, And told of those I had not seen for years. They nevermore can part this treasure from my heart, It came from one who blessed it with a tear, It brought the joys of old, its hopes and bliss untold, This bunch of shamrock from my mother dear.

CHORUS. A bunch of shamrock from my dear old mother, A treasure dearer far than any other, Though faded it shall rest upon my loving breast, This bunch of shamrock from my dear old mother.

I see the cabin now, my mother's saddened brow, I hear the voice that whispered sweet good-bye, "Remember, lad," said she, "and true and honest be," Her words within my heart can never die. Though oft the world is sad, my heart is ever glad, I roam the vales again with happy cheer, Ah, mem'ries sweet awake, when in my hand I take, This bunch of shamrock from my mother dear.--CHOent off very well, and the fish was very much to my gusto. But we got up too soon after the women; and Mrs. Corinne always lingers so long after dinner that we wish her in--the drawing-room.

"To-day C. called, and while sitting here, in came Merivale. During our colloquy, C. abused the 'mawkishness of the Quarterly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I changed the conversation as soon as I could; and C. went away, quite convinced of having made the most favourable impression on his new acquaintance. Merivale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or, God he knows what might have been engendered from such a malaprop. I did not look at him while this was going on, but I felt like a coal--for I like Merivale, as well as the article in question.

"Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamphlet, with a marginal note and corrections in his handwriting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and shall treasure it.

"March 7.

"Rose at seven--ready by half-past eight--went to Mr. Hanson's, Berkeley Square--went to church with his eldest daughter, Mary Anne , and gave her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. Saw her fairly a countess--congratulated the family and groom --drank a bumper of wine to their felicity, and all that--and came home. Asked to stay to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Phillips for faces. Called on Lady M.--I like her so well, that I always stay too long.

"March 10. Thor's Day.

"Sleepy, and must go to bed.

"Tuesday, March 15.

"Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the defensive letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is very kind, and more than I did for myself.

"I shall begin a more regular system of reading soon.

"Thursday, March 17.

"I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this morning; and mean to continue and renew my acquaintance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, and wind are in very good plight, and I am not in flesh. I used to be a hard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height . At any rate, exercise is good, and this the severest of all; fencing and the broad-sword never fatigued me half so much.

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