13
JANUARY 17, 1913
The Commoner.
rtmoaodgf
M.MQupinry J
'ASf
An Evening of Old Songs
A few nights ago I took the Little
Woman to the theatre or rather we
went together. Frankly it was to a
vaudeville entertainment, and we
enjoyed it to the limit. But there
was one number on the bill that made
an especially strong hit with me.
It was given by a man and a woman
who were artists on the banjo, but
it wasn't so much the way they
played the banjo as what they played
that made the big hit with me. They
didn't play a lot of that June-moon-spoon
ragtime rot, nor jigs and reels
and turket trot. The woman dressed
in the old-fashioned way crinoline
and flowered silk and all. Then the
two of them played the old-time
tuneB that our fathers and mothers
used to enjoy. As they played the
tunes the words of the old songs
were flashed on a screen, and I sat
there and sung them to myself and
had more fun than I've had since the
time I ran that raketooth in my foot
and couldn't work in the garden but
could go Ashing.
"Wait for the wagon!" When they
played it I could imagine that I was
hearing my mother sing it again.
"Susannah don't you cry;" I knew
it the minute the banjos started it.
"A buckwheat cake was in her
mouth, a tear was in her eye ."
My, how it started the feet to keep
ing time. "Darling Clementine!"
Do you remember that nonsensical
song with the plaintive tune?
"Drove the ducklets to the river
Every morning just at nine;
Stubb.qd her toe against a sliver,
Fell into the foaming brine!"
I can not remember all the verses,
for there were a score or more, but
I can remember how they used to
sing it years and years ago. Then
they played:
"I wandered today o'er the hills,
Maggie,
To watch the scene below "
and if that old song hasn't got all
these modern love songs beaten both
ways from the middle then I don't
know a thing about music and
melody and sentiment. And
"Darling, I am growing old;
Silver threads among the gold
Shine upon my brow today;
Life is fading fast away."
Have your girl play and sing that
for you, then let her sing one of
those purple slush things like "Meet
Me Tonight in Dreamland," or
"Afraid to Go Home in the Dark"
monstrosities perpetrated of late
years.
And "Seeing Nellie Home!" Ah,
that was a beautiful one. It struck
me right where I lived. And when
I heard it again after the lapse of
yeas I couldn't help feeling sorry
for those who prefered such trunes
as "Everybody's Doin' It" or "Bunny
Hug." They played "When Johnnie
Comes Marching Home," and all the
rest of the old-timers, and when the
Little Woman and I got back home
I could hardly refrain from going to
the music cabinet and tearing up
about half the stuff that the Biggest
Girl has accumulated.
I am not much of a singer, but
when I break loose and sing some
of those old songs I certainly do put
a lot of expression into them. Also
main etrength and awkwaTdness.
But I enjoy my own singing a whole
lot, and I'd rather hear myself sing
those old songs than to hear any
body else singing some of the so
called songs of these later and
musically degenerate days. When
my ship comes in bringing me more
money than I need for myself and
family, I am going to employ a
double quartet of the best singers I
can find, and I'm going to take them
on a tour of the country, giving freo
concerts to the people. And the pro
gram is going to be made up of the
old songs of your childhood days and
mine. Hdre is a program I have
long had in mind:
"We Meet, We Meet Again, Boys;"
"Wait for the Wagon."
"Annie Laurie."
"Silver Threads Among the Gold."
"Believe Me if All Those Endear
ing Young Charms."
"Sextet from Lucia."
Medley of plantation songs "Old
Kentucky Home," "In the Evening
by the Moonlight," "Nellie Gray,"
"Old Black Joe," "Old Shady,"
"Goin Back to Dixie," "Massa's in
de Cold, Cold Ground," "Do Gospel
Ship" and "Old Uncle Ned."
"Sweet Belle Mahone."
"O, Susannah!"
"Come Where the Lilies Bloom."
"Soldier's Farewell."
Medley of national airs of all na
tions. "Star Spangled Banner."
"Auld Lang Syne."
Of course I haven't included all
the old songs that I love but I have
in mind the time limitations of a
single evening. Now if you have any
suggestions for the improvement of
that program, just let me know. My
ship may sail in any old time, and
there's no telling when I may bring
my concert company to your town
hall.
Will Carleton
A reader of this department asks
the publication of Will Carleton's
"Memorial Day" poem and "The New
Church Organ." The memorial day
poem will be published later, and at
a more appropriate time, but "The
New Church Organ" is given here.
In reading it you should bear in mind
that it appeared nearly forty years
ago, and at a time when very few
churches tolerated instrumental
music, and those located only in the
larger cities. In the rural communi
ties "the devil was in the fiddle," and
the mere thought of instrumental
music in the "meeting house" would
bring on several varieties of reli
gious fits. Carleton wrote right down
to the hearts of the people, and while
there is a vein of humor and sar
casm in this poem, there is also a
hidden appeal to that old prejudice
against music that once existed in
the hearts of most church people
and still lingers in the hearts of
a few:
THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN
They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,
For all their fuss and seairch;
They've done just as they said they'd
do,
And fetched it Into church.
They're bound the critter shall be
seen,
And on the preacher's right
They've hoisted up their new ma
chine, In everybody's sight.
They've got a chorister and choir,
Ag'in' my voice and vote;
For it waB never my desire
To praise the Lord by note.
I've been a sister good an true
For five-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
I've sung the hymns both, slow and
quick.
Just as the preacher read,
And twice, whon Deacort Tubbs was
sick,
I took tho fork an' lad!
And now, their bold, new-fnngled
ways
In comin' all about;
And I, right in my latter days
Am fairly crowded out!
Today tho preacher, good old dear,
With tears all in his eyes,
Read, "I can read my titlo clear
To mansions in tho skies."
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn
I s'poso I al'ays will;
It somehow gratifies my whim,
In good old Ortonville;
But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn't catch a word;
They sung tho most dog-gondeBt
thing,
A body ever heard.
Some worldly chaps was standin'
near;
An when I see them grin
I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly wnded in.
I thought I'd chase their tune along,
An' tried with all my might;
But though "my voice is good and
strong,
I couldn't steer it right;
When they was high, then I was low,
An' also contrawise;
An' I too fast, or they too slow,
To "mansions in tho skies."
An' after every verse, you know,
They play a little tune;
I didn't understand, and so
I started in too soon.
1 pitched it pretty middlin' high,
I fetched a lusty tone,
But, Oh, alas! I found that I
Was slngin' there alone!
They laughed a little, I am told;
But I had done my best;
And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown I could but
look
She sits right from of me;
She never was no singin'-book,
An' never wont to be;
But then she al'ays tried to do
The best she could, she said;
She understood the time right
through,
An' kep' it with her head;
But when she tried this mornin' oh,
I had to laugh, or cough!
It kep' her head r. bobbin' so,
It e'en a'most come off!
And Deacon Tubbs he all broke
down,
. As one might well suppose;
He took one look at Sister Brown,
And meekly .cratched his nose.
He looked his hymn-book through
and through
And laid it on the seat,
And then a pensive sigh ho drew,
And looked completely beat.
An when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise;
But drawed his red bandannor out,
An' wiped his weepin' eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' Jrue,
For flve-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my iart to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
But Death will stop my voice, I know,
For he Is on my track;
And some day I to church will go,
And never more come back;
And when the folks gets up to sing
Whene'er that time shall be
I do not want no patent thing
A squealin' over me.
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