A Prisoner for Life
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THE WARS OF GERMANY
There was a wealthy merchant,
In London he did dwell,
He had an only daughter,
The truth to you I’ll tell.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
She was courted by a lord
Of very high degree,
She was courted by a sailor Jack
Just from the wars of Germany.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
Her parents came to know this,
That such a thing could be,
A sailor Jack, a sailor lad,
Just from the wars of Germany.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
So Polly she’s at home
With money at command,
She taken a notion
To view some foreign land.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
She went to the tailor’s shop
And dressed herself in man’s array,
And was off to an officer
To carry her straight away.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
“Good morning,” says the officer,
And “Morning,” says she,
“Here’s fifty guineas if you’ll carry me
To the wars of Germany.”
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
“Your waist is too slender,
Your fingers are too small,
I am afraid from your countenance
You can’t face a cannon ball.”
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
“My waist is not too slender,
My fingers are not too small,
And never would I quiver
To face a cannon ball.”
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
“We don’t often ’list an officer
Unless the name we know;”
She answered him in a low, sweet voice,
“You may call me Jack Munro.”
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
We gathered up our men
And quickly we did sail,
We landed in France
With a sweet and pleasant gale.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
We were walking on the land,
Up and down the line,—
Among the dead and wounded
Her own true love she did find.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
She picked him up all in her arms,
To Tousen town she went;
She soon found a doctor
To dress and heal his wounds,
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.
So Jacky, he is married,
And his bride by his side,
In spite of her old parents
And all the world beside.
Sing no longer left alone,
Sing no longer left alone.
FREIGHTING FROM WILCOX TO GLOBE
Come all you jolly freighters
That has freighted on the road,
That has hauled a load of freight
From Wilcox to Globe;
We freighted on this road
For sixteen years or more
A-hauling freight for Livermore,
—
No wonder that I’m poor.
And it’s home, dearest home;
And it’s home you ought to be,
Over on the Gila
In the white man’s country,
Where the poplar and the ash
And mesquite will ever be
Growing green down on the Gila;
There’s a home for you and me.
’Twas in the spring of seventy-three
I started with my team,
Led by false illusion
And those foolish, golden dreams;
The first night out from Wilcox
My best wheel horse was stole,
And it makes me curse a little
To come out in the hole.
This then only left me three,—
Kit, Mollie and old Mike;
Mike being the best one of the three
I put him out on spike;
I then took the mountain road
So the people would not smile,
And it took fourteen days
To travel thirteen mile.
But I got there all the same
With my little three-up spike;
It taken all my money, then,
To buy a mate for Mike.
You all know how it is
When once you get behind,
You never get even again
Till you damn steal them blind.
I was an honest man
When I first took to the road,
I would not swear an oath,
Nor would I tap a load;
But now you ought to see my mules
When I begin to cuss,
They flop their ears and wiggle their tails
And pull the load or bust.
Now I can tap a whiskey barrel
With nothing but a stick,
No one can detect me
I’ve got it down so slick;
Just fill it up with water,—
Sure, there’s no harm in that.
Now my clothes are not the finest,
Nor are they genteel;
But they will have to do me
Till I can make another steal.
My boots are number elevens,
For I swiped them from a chow,
And my coat cost dos reals
From a little Apache squaw.
Now I have freighted in the sand,
I have freighted in the rain,
I have bogged my wagons down
And dug them out again;
I have worked both late and early
Till I was almost dead,
And I have spent some nights sleeping
In an Arizona bed.
Now barbed wire and bacon
Is all that they will pay,
But you have to show your copper checks
To get your grain and hay;
If you ask them for five dollars,
Old Meyers will scratch his pate,
And the clerks in their white, stiff collars
Say, “Get down and pull your freight.”
But I want to die and go to hell,
Get there before Livermore and Meyers,
And get a job of hauling coke
To keep up the devil’s fires;
If I get the job of singeing them,
I’ll see they don’t get free;
I’ll treat them like a yaller dog,
As they have treated me.
And it’s home, dearest home;
And it’s home you ought to be,
Over on the Gila,
In the white man’s country,
Where the poplar and the ash
And mesquite will ever be
Growing green down on the Gila;
There’s a home for you and me.
THE ARIZONA BOYS AND GIRLS
Come all of you people, I pray you draw near,
A comical ditty you all shall hear.
The boys in this country they try to advance
By courting the ladies and learning to dance,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
The boys in this country they try to be plain,
Those words that you hear you may hear them again,
With twice as much added on if you can.
There’s many a boy stuck up for a man,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
They will go to their parties, their whiskey they’ll take,
And out in the dark their bottles they’ll break;
You’ll hear one say, “There’s a bottle around here;
So come around, boys, and we’ll all take a share,”—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
There is some wears shoes and some wears boots,
But there are very few that rides who don’t shoot;
More than this, I’ll tell you what they’ll do,
They’ll get them a watch and a ranger hat, too,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
They’ll go in the hall with spurs on their heel,
They’ll get them a partner to dance the next reel,
Saying, “How do I look in my new brown suit,
With my pants stuffed down in the top of my boot?”—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
Now I think it’s quite time to leave off these lads
For here are some girls that’s fully as bad;
They’ll trim up their dresses and curl up their hair,
And like an old owl before the glass they’ll stare,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
The girls in the country they grin like a cat,
And with giggling and laughing they don’t know what they’re at,
They think they’re pretty and I tell you they’re wise,
But they couldn’t get married to save their two eyes,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
You can tell a good girl wherever she’s found;
No trimming, no lace, no nonsense around;
With a long-eared bonnet tied under her chin,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
They’ll go to church with their snuff-box in hand,
They’ll give it a tap to make it look grand;
Perhaps there is another one or two
And they’ll pass it around and it’s “Madam, won’t you,”—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
Now, I think it’s quite time for this ditty to end;
If there’s anyone here that it will offend,
If there’s anyone here that thinks it amiss
Just come around now and give the singer a kiss,—
And they’re down, down, and they’re down.
THE DYING RANGER
The sun was sinking in the west
And fell with lingering ray
Through the branches of a forest
Where a wounded ranger lay;
Beneath the shade of a palmetto
And the sunset silvery sky,
Far away from his home in Texas
They laid him down to die.
A group had gathered round him,
His comrades in the fight,
A tear rolled down each manly cheek
As he bid a last good-night.
One tried and true companion
Was kneeling by his side,
To stop his life-blood flowing,
But alas, in vain he tried.
When to stop the life-blood flowing
He found ’twas all in vain,
The tears rolled down each man’s cheek
Like light showers of rain.
Up spoke the noble ranger,
“Boys, weep no more for me,
I am crossing the deep waters
To a country that is free.
“Draw closer to me, comrades,
And listen to what I say,
I am going to tell a story
While my spirit hastens away.
Way back in Northwest Texas,
That good old Lone Star state,
There is one that for my coming
With a weary heart will wait.
“A fair young girl, my sister,
My only joy, my pride,
She was my friend from boyhood,
I had no one left beside.
I have loved her as a brother,
And with a father’s care
I have strove from grief and sorrov
Her gentle heart to spare.
“My mother, she lies sleeping
Beneath the church-yard sod,
And many a day has passed away
Since her spirit fled to God.
My father, he lies sleeping
Beneath the deep blue sea,
I have no other kindred,
There are none but Nell and me.
“But our country was invaded
And they called for volunteers;
She threw her arms around me,
Then burst into tears,
Saying, ‘Go, my darling brother,
Drive those traitors from our shore,
My heart may need your presence,
But our country needs you more.’
“It is true I love my country,
For her I gave my all.
If it hadn’t been for my sister,
I would be content to fall.
I am dying, comrades, dying,
She will never see me more,
But in vain she’ll wait my coming
By our little cabin door.
“Comrades, gather closer
And listen to my dying prayer.
Who will be to her as a brother,
And shield her with a brother’s care?”
Up spake the noble rangers,
They answered one and all,
“We will be to her as brothers
Till the last one does fall.”
One glad smile of pleasure
O’er the ranger’s face was spread;
One dark, convulsive shadow,
And the ranger boy was dead.
Far from his darling sister
We laid him down to rest
With his saddle for a pillow
And his gun across his breast.