So we were engaged in the regular way ;
My time passed as happy as the flowers in May.
When I thought of Isabella,

And her gingham umbrella,

And her father's little barber-shop at Wee-haw-ken.

When you hear the sequel, you'll say it has no equal
In all the annals of woman's deceit;

I went one night, for to meet my Isabella,

But no Isabella was there to meet.

I searched far and wide, till I happened to drop

In a lager-bier garden, where they had a sort of " 'hop."
Ob there was Isabella,

With a ginger-whiskered fellow,

Doing "double-shuffle" up at Wee-haw-ken.

I staggered with surprise, then exclaimed: Isabella!
Do I look like a fool? Do you take me for a flat?
She coolly replied: Well, I rayther think I do;

And if you don't like it take it out of that.

I rushed at my rival, satisfaction to get,
But found that my troubles had not ended yet:
For, up jumped Isabella,

With her gingham umbrella,

And let me have it on the nose at Wee-haw-ken.

I rushed from her presence, resolved upon slaughter;
Thinks I, Now in the Hudson repose I will find,
Then fully bent on Susancide, I ran down to the water,
But my opinions altered, and I changed my mind;

For folly must be paid for, and wisdom bought-
There are fishes in the sea that have not been caught-
So a fig for Isabella,

And her gingham umbrella,

And her father's little barber-shop at Wee-haw-ken

Get the butter kettle ready,

I must market anyhow;

But I wish you'd tell me, truly,
Who's to pay for butter now?

Soon to market I'll be marching,
Oh! I wish I had a cow!

That must be when gold has fallen,
Who's to pay for butter now?

Who can eat such great big slices?
Who can go on drinking beer?
Who can think of cakes and muffins,
Now that butter is so dear?
Even now I think I see you,
(Seventy cents a pound, too)-how
Can you eat it with your bacon?
Who's to pay for butter now?

Soon to market I'll be marching,
Oh! I wish I had a cow!

That must be when gold has fallen,
Who's to pay for butter now?

With my kettle full of butter,
My mantilla all awry,

I must hurry through the markets,
For I've got to make a pie.
I shall put lard in the pastry--
Butter's too rich, anyhow;
Even if I thought it wasn't,
Who's to pay for butter now?

Soon from market I'll be marching,
Oh! I wish I had a cow!

That must be when gold has fallen,
Who's to pay for butter now?

THE SHODDY CONTRACTOR.

AIR.-The Fine Old English Gentleman.

I'll sing to you a little song, made by a modern pate,
About a shoddy cloth-contractor, who owns a fine estate
In a street called Fifth Avenue, where big bugs congregate
And bears a good character, though his hours are somewhat late,
This shoddy cloth-contractor of the present time..

Before this cruel war" broke out, he was what's termed "a beat,"

And kept a small hand-me-down store, in Chatham street;

His neighbors they all marked him down as an arrant cheat;" But now he'll pass his poor friends by, whene'er they chance to meet,

This shoddy doth-contractor, one of the present time.

Now he keeps a stud of horses, the fastest in the town,
Determined to outshine his neighbors, Smith and Brown:
In Broadway you may see him daily, driving up and down; .
And often at Delmonico's sipping champagne he is found,

This shoddy cloth-contractor, one of the present time.

He keeps his shoddy-factory in a bye-street near Broadway,
Employs several hundred hands, but gives them little pay;
And if a poor soldier's wife works hard, she can gain fifty cents
a day,

.

To support her little ones at home, while her husband's far away, From this shoddy cloth-contractor, one of the present time.

At the Sanitary Fair, his name is on the list

Of subscribers for one hundred dollars; but of course that won't be missed;

He rents the finest pew in church, and always stands the grist; For the next government contract puts fifty thousand in the fist Of this shoddy cloth-contractor, one of the present time.

At every war-meeting, he is sure to be seen there,
On the speakers' platform sometimes he takes the chair,
Tho' he can no more make a speech than Barnum's grizzly bear;
But he pays a man to write one, which he studies with great care,
This shoddy cloth-contractor, one of the present time.

You can tell him in a thousand, by his lofty mien and tread,
This shoddy cloth-contractor, who has his country bled;
But, tho' Justice may be sleeping, still she is not dead,
And soon will her avenging sword fall upon the heads
Of all shoddy contractors, of the present time.

EVER MY SPIRIT AWAKENS TO THEE.

ANSWER TO

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER.

Words by MISS MAGGIE WILLIAMS. Music by C. MACK.

Entered according to Act of Cougress, 1865, by WM. R. SMITH, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern Dis

Waked by the notes of sweet melody,

Listen the soft strains are speaking to me,

Telling of dew-drops and starlight so bright,

World hushed to rest 'neath the moon's gentle light;
Bright glistening dew-drops may mantle the vale,
Powerless thy dreamer from slumber to free,

Starlight grow dim and mild moonlight may pale;
Ever my spirit awakens to thee,

Ever my spirit awakens to thee.

Mermaids may chant their notes o'er the sea,
Vain is their music, their wild song to me,
Over the streamlet light breezes be borne,
Vapors arising may wait for the morn.
Not the light breezes arising to-night

Tell the sweet tale of thy love unto me,

Nor the bright moon with its beauty and light;

JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE, MOTHER.

Sung by J. L. CARNCROSS, of Carncross and DIXEY's Minstrels.

Just before the battle, Mother,

I'm thinking most of you;

While upon the field we're watching,

With the enemy in view;

Comrades brave are round me lying,

Filled with thoughts of home and God;

For well they know that on the morrow
Some will sleep beneath the sod.

Farewell, Mother, you may never
Press me to your heart again;
But oh! you'll not forget me, Mother,
If I'm number'd with the slain.

Oh! I long to see you, Mother,
And the loving ones at home;
But I'll never leave our banner
Till in honor I can come;
Tell the traitors all around you,
That their cruel words we know,
In ev'ry battle kill our soldiers,
By the help they give the foe.
Farewell, Mother, &c.

Hark! I hear the bugles sounding,
'Tis the signal for the fight:
Now may God protect us, Mother,
As He ever does the right;

Hear the "Battle-cry of Freedom,"
How it swells upon the air;

Oh, yes, we'll rally round our standard,
Or we'll perish nobly there.

Farewell, Mother, &c.

JUST AFTER THE BATTLE, MOTHER.

Sung by J. L. CARNCROSS, of CARNCROSS and DIxEY's Minstrels Still upon the field of battle

I am lying, mother dear,

With my wounded comrades waiting,
For the morning to appear;

Many sleep to waken never,

In this world of strife and death,
And many more are faintly calling,
With their feeble, dying breath,

Mother dear, your boy is wounded,
And the night is drear with pain,
But still I feel that I shall see you,
And the dear old home again.

I