Maker Of Songs

He made the little songs that people love,
Heart-clutching little songs of homely things
That bring a tender laughter to the eyes,
A sadness, that is like the brush of wings:
He sang of quaint wee maids in pinafores,
Of red geraniums on a window sill
Of curtains edged in golden-ruffled scrim,
And lullabies, when tiny feet are still.
He sang of soft warm arms that hold one close,
And trim white cottages-with garden plots
Of mellow loam, and rows of jade-green peas;
Of woodsy byways. . . and forget-me-nots.
He never sang the busy world he knew
The restless turmoil of the mill, and mart
A world that had denied these humbler joys. . .
He sang the hunger that was in his heart!

JESSIE WILMORE MURTON.

the cowboy's lament

 As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
 As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
 Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.

"Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
Play the dead march as you carry me along;
Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me,
 For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy"
 These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.
 "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story;
 I am shot in the breast and I know I must die.

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song.
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,
 For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"My friends and relations they live in the Nation,
 They know not where their boy has gone.
 He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman,
 Oh, I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing;
 It was once in the saddle I used to go gay;
First to the dram-house and then to the card-house;
 Got shot in the breast and I am dying today.

 "Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin;
 Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall.
 Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
 Put roses to deaden the sods as they fall.

"Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,
 And give a wild whoop as you carry me along;
And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me
 For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"Oh, bury beside me my knife and six-shooter,
 My spurs on my heel, my rifle by my side,
And over my coffin put a bottle of brandy
That the cowboys may drink as they carry me along.

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water,
 To cool my parched lips," the cowboy then said;
 Before I returned his soul had departed,
And gone to the round-up-the cowboy was dead.

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
 And bitterly wept as we bore him along;
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,
 We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.

Where men lived raw, in the desert's maw,
And hell was nothing to shun;
Where they buried 'em neat, without preacher or sheet,
 And writ on their foreheads, crude but sweet,
"This Jasper was slow with a gun."

Red River Valley

From this valley they say you are going, I shall miss your sweet face and your smile;
 Because you are weary and tired, You are changing your range for a while.
 I've been thinking a long time, my darling, Of the sweet words you never would say;
 Now, alas, must my fond hopes all vanish? For they say you are going away.

 Chorus:
 Then come sit here awhile e'er you leave us
, Do not hasten to bid us adieu,
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loves you so true.

 I have promised you, darling, that never Will words from my lips cause you pain;
 And my life it will be yours forever, If you only will love me again.
Must the past with its joys all be blighted By the future of sorrow and pain?
 Must the vows that were spoken be slighted? Don't you think you could love me again?

There never could be such a longing In the heart of a poor cowboy's breast,
As dwells in the heart you are breaking, As I wait in my home in the West.
Do you think of the valley you're leaving? Oh, how lonely and dreary it'll be!
 Do you think of the kind hearts you're hurting, And the pain you are causing to me?

Thanksgiving day

Over the river and through the wood,
 To grandfather's house we go;
 The horse knows the way
 To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

 Over the river and through the wood
 Oh, how the wind doth blow!
 It stings the toes
 And bites the nose
As over the ground we go.

 Over the river and through the wood,
 To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ling!
"Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

 Over the river and through the wood,
 Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
 Spring over the ground
 Like a hunting-hound,
 For this is Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,
 And straight through the barnyard gate.
 We seem to go
Extremely slow
It is so hard to wait.

Over the river and through the wood¬
 Now grandmother's cap I spy!
 Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

Lydia Maria Child 

AULD LANG SYNE

            Favorite selection of Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus), and by him contributed.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot.

            And never brought to min' ?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

            And days 0' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

            For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup 0' kindness yet,

            For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes

            And pu' d the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot

            Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn

            From morning sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roared

            Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere.

            And gie's a hand o' thine.

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught.

For aula lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,

            As sure as I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

            For auld lang syne.

Robert Burns.