THE GREAT KNOW NOTHING SONG,
"I DONT KNOW."

BY FRANCIS F. EASTLACK,

AIR---Bow, Wow, Wow.

Of all the many mighty things in this here Quaker City,
Of dark, and brown, and blue-eyed girls, with cheeks so plump and pretty;
Of all the wonders of the day that's horrible or shocking,
The greatest question of them all is who are the know nothings?

Chorus—I don't know;

Nor you don't know,
Then don't you ask me any thing,
For I don't know.

These men wear white hats all turned up, and at you boldly stare, sir,
They only speak with nods and winks, and never comb their hair, sir,
They beat both Whigs and Democrats, wherever they may go, sir,
And if you ask them any thing they'll answer, I don't know, sir.

I don't know, &c.

The ladies, too, God bless their hearts, I cannot help but love them,
For who with all their nods and winks, can ever be above them,
No, they know their tricks, their signs, their grips, from head to heel and toe, sir,
And should you ask a girl her name, shall answer, I don't know, sir.

I don't know, &c.

You dare not tell your wife be still, or say she's always squeling,
Or you'll find a great big three legged stool around your head come reeling,
And the other day I asked my wife, only to mend my stockings,
Now not an other word, she cried, I'm a feminine Know Nothing.

I don't know, &c.

The other day I came from work, with heat was almost smothered,
Says I unto my youngest son, Ho, Sam! where is your mother?
Then he turned his fingers on his nose, and with a voice half mocking,
Why, dad, says he, why don't you know that I'm a young Know Nothing?

I don't know, &c.

We took this same smart son of ours one day to a public dinner,
And into corn, and pork, and beans, he pitched in like a sinner,
Says the lady, Now of all these men, your father to me show, Sam;
Then he looked me right straight in the face, und answered I don't know, ma'am.

I don't know, &c.

Young men, now marry from this lot of pretty girls around you,
And when your settled down in life, and family cares surround you,
Take the advice of one poor man, who's suffered deepest wo, sir,
Don't teach your little ones to say, why really, I don't know, sir.

I don't know, &c.

Now, ladies, don't you think 'tis hard, and don't you think it's shocking,
That we in free America, should all of us know nothing;
And don't you say with all your heart, I do believe it so, sir,
Or can you say, like all the rest, Why really I don't know, sir?

I don't know, &c.

PUBLISHED BY H. J. KEHR,
CENTRAL HALL,

Frankford Road and Master Streets,
AND FOR SALE AT ALL THE BOOK STORES.

Copyright Secured.

A. W. AUNER, SONG PUBLISHER & PRINTER,
Tenth and Race Sts., Philadelphia, Pa.

HOMEWARD BOUND

Out on an ocean all boundless we ride,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound,
Tossed on the waves of a rough restless tide,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound,
Far from the safe, quiet harbor we rode,
Seeking our Father's celestial abode,
Promise of which on us each he bestowed—
We're homeward bound, homeward bound.

Wildly the storm sweeps us on as it roars,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound,
Look yonder lie the bright heavenly shores,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound,
Steady, oh, pilot, stand firm at the wheel,
Steady, we soon shall outweather the gale,
Oh, how we fly 'neath the loud cracking sail,
We're homeward bound, homeward bound.

Into the harbor of Heaven now we glide,
We're home at last, home at last,
Safely we drift on its soft silver tide,
We're home at last, home at last;
Glory to God, all our dangers are o'er,
We stand secure on the glorified shore—
Glory to God, we will shout evermore,
We're home at last, home at last

A. W. AUNER'S
CARD AND JOB PRINTING ROOMS,
Tenth and Race Sts., Philadelphia, Pa.

I'M AFLOAT.

I'm afloat! I'm afloat on the fierce rolling tide,
The ocean's my home and my bark is my bride,
Up! up with my flag, let it wave o'er the sea,

I'm afloat! I'm afloat, and the rover is free!

I fear not the monarch, I heed not the law,
I've a compass to steer by, a dagger to draw,
And ne'er as a coward or slave will I kneel,

While my guns carry shot an' my belt bears a steel!

Quick! quick! trim her sail, let her sheet kiss the wind,
And I warrant we'll soon leave the sea-bird behind,

The night gathers o'er us, the thunder is heard,
What matter, our vessel skims on like a bird,

What to her is the dash of the storm ridden main,

She braved it before and can brave it again!

The fire gleaming flashes around us may fall,
They may strike, they may cleave, but they cannot appal,

With lightning above us and darkness below,

Through the wide waste of waters right onward we go—

Hurrah! my brave crew, ye may drink, ye may sleep,
The storm fiend is hushed, we're alone on the deep,

Our flag of defiance still waves o'er the sea—
I'm afloat! I'm afloat, and the rover is free!

THOMAS M. SCROGGY, Publisher,
No. 443 Vine Street, above Twelfth, Phila.

Where all new songs can be obtained, wholesale and retail.

LOW BACK'D CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a Market Day,

A low Back'd Car she drove and sat,
Upon a tuft of hay,

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of Spring,

No flowers were there that could compare,
With the lovely girl I sing.

As she sat in that Low Back'd Car,
The man at the Turnpike bar,

Good natured old soul,

Never asked for his toll,

But looked after that Low Back'd Car.

In battles wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars,

With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,
Of death in warlike sears,

But Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,

That knocks men down, in the Market Town,
As right and left they fly;

As she sits in that Low Back'd Car,
The battle more dangerous far.

For the doctor's art cannot heal the smart,

That is hit from the Low Back'd Car.

Sweet Peggy round her Car, sir's,
Has strings of ducks and geese,

But the scores of hearts she slaughters,
By far out number these;

While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,

Well worth a cage, I do engage,
With the blooming god of love.

As she sat in her Low Back'd Car,
The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chickens, that Peggy is picking,

As she sits in her Low Back'd Car.

I'd rather own that Car, sir's,
With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
With a lady for my bride.

For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,

While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist.

As we rode in that Low Back'd Car,
To be married by Father Magar,
Oh my heart would beat high,

At each glance of her eye,
As we rode in her Low Back'd Car.

T. M. SCROGGY, Publisher, 443 Vine st. below 13th, where all the new
Songs can be obtained, wholesale and retail.

MEET ME
AT THE LANE.

Music Published by Sep. Winner & Co.

I'll meet thee at the lane, love, when it strikes nine,
In ecstacy again love to call thee mine;
My heart for thee is burning, my brain is almost whirling,
Through loving thee so madly, my sweet mountain rose,
When evening stars are peeping, oh, then will be our
meeting,

Old time too swiftly fleeting our happy time away,
I'll meet thee at the lane, love, when it strikes nine,
In ecstacy again, love, to call thee mine;
My heart for thee is burning, my brain is almost whirling,
Through loving thee so madly my sweet mountain rose.

I'll meet thee at the lane, love, when it strikes nine,
In ecstacy again, love, to call thee mine;
I'll meet thee at the lane, I'll meet thee at the lane,
Meet me, meet me when the clock strikes nine.

I'll leave thee at the lane, love, when it strikes ten,
And faithful will remain, love, believe me then;
Forget thee I can never, and breath from me must sever,
If I forget thee ever, my sweet mountain rose.
When evening stars are peeping, oh, then will be our
meeting,

Old time too swiftly fleeting our happy time away;
I'll leave thee at the lane, love, when it strikes ten,
And faithful will remain love, believe me then,
Forget thee I can never, and breath from me must sever,
If I forget thee ever, my sweet mountain rose.

I'll meet thee at the lane, &c.

A. W. AUNER,
Song Publisher,
Eleventh and Market Sts., Philada.

THE PAUPERS.

BY JOHN L. ZIEBER.

AIR.—“Ben Bolt.”

Oh don't you remember the Paupers, Tom Brown ?
The Paupers who ain't got no dough,
Who grin with delight whenever they meet,
For "treat" is the word, they well know ;
At the corner tavern you know Tom Brown,
The Paupers delight all to loafe,
They'll drink with a friend or play for a drink,
Or take a good nap near the stove.

Oh don't you remember our "King," Tom Brown ?
Our "King" whose true subjects we are,
For often we've taken our toddies with him,
As we stood in a row at the bar ;
Our King's run short of funds, Tom Brown,
To treat us now, he can't afford,
So we are compelled to live on the town,
For nobody pays for our board.

Oh don't you think it a shame, Tom Brown ?
To get any work there's no show,
If times won't get better, I fear,
We'll all have to go, "down below,"
A better time's coming, they say, Tom Brown,
If it is so, I hope it is near,
For the Paupers complain, that times are so hard,
They can't get their pretzel or beer.

Twelve hours, twenty, have passed, Tom Brown,
I am not mistaken, I think,
At least I am sure, 'tis a very long while,
Since last I have taken a drink ;
So here's to the Paupers good health, Tom Brown,
Come drink to our health while I sing,
But while we are drinking our own good health,
Don't let us forget our good King.

T. M. Seroggy, Publisher, No. 443 Vine st. below 13th.
Where all the new songs can be obtained wholesale & retail.

Where all this new song can be obtained wholesale & retail.
T. H.SGREGG, Publisher, No. 448, Vine St. below 13th.
1844

But while we are thinking our own good health,

Come drink to our health while I sing.

So here's to the Pioneers good health, Tom Brown,

Since last I have taken a drink;

At least I am sure, it's a very long while,

I am not mistaken, I think.

Twelve hours, twenty, has passed, Tom Brown,

For the Pioneers complain, that times are so hard,
It is so, I hope it is near.

A better time, a coming, they say, Tom Brown,

It's all here to go, "down below,"

To get any work there's no show.

Oh don't you think it a shame, Tom Brown?

For nobody pays for our bread.

Our King's raw short of Tom Brown,

To be stood in a row at 12 o'clock,

For often we've taken out 12 o'clock with him,

Our "King," who's true subjects are we,

(Oh God! Don't remember our "King," Tom Brown!

Or take a good nap under the stars.

They'll drink with a friend or play for a drink,
The Pioneers would all to-jerk.

At the cost ofaxen 200oz Tom Brown,

For a drink, is the word, they will know;
Who gains with skills, whichever they meet.

The Pioneers who ain't got no money,

Air...—"Don't do it."

BY JOHN F. WEBER.

THE PIONEERS.