Oh, the Rifles have stolen my dear jewel away,
And I in old England no longer can stay;
I will cross the wide ocean, all on my bare breast,
To find my own true love, whom I do love best.

And when I have found him, my own heart's delight,
I will prove to him kinder by day and by night,
I will prove to him kinder than the true turtle-dove,
I never will at any time prove false to my love.

And when we are married the bells they shall ring,
With many sweet changes our joys to begin;
The music shall play and the drums make a noise,

Oh! I love to travel far and near throughout my native land;
I love to sell as I go 'long, and take the cash in hand.
I love to cure all in distress that happen in my way,
And you better believe I feel quite fine when folks rush up and say:

Chorus:
“I'll take another bottle of Wizard Oil,
I'll take another bottle or two;
I'll take another bottle of Wizard Oil,
I'll take another bottle or two.”

Now, listen to what I'm going to say, and don't you think I'm jesting
When I tell you for your aches and pains that Wizard Oil's the best thing.

No matter how the chances are,
—Nor when the winds may blow,
My Jerry there has left the sea
—With all its luck an' woe:
For who would try the sea at all,
—Must try it luck or no.

They told him—Lor', men take no care
—How words they speak may fall—
They told him blunt, he was too old,
—Too slow with oar an' trawl,
An' this is how he left the sea
—An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land
—Out of his beaten way,
If he is young 'twill do, but then,
—If he is old an' gray,
A month will be a year to him.

Need from excess—excess from folly growing,
Keeps Christie's hammer daily, going, going!
Ill-omened prelude! whose dire knell brings on
Profusion's last sad dying speech—‘Gone! gone!’

My youth is
Made fast
To the dock
At Marseilles
Rotting away
With a chain to her mast.

She that saw slaughters
In foreign waters

She that was torn
With the winds off the Horn

She that was beached in the bleaching environs
Of sirens

She that rounded the Cape of Good Hope
With a rope's aid

She's fast there
Off the Cannebière

It's easy to see
She was frail in the knee
And too sharp in the bow—
You can see now.

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall—
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;

My love she was born in the north country wide,
Where's lofty hills and mountains all round on every side;
She's one of the fairest creatures that ever my eyes did see,
She exceeds all the maids in the north country.

My parents separated me and my dear,
Which caused me to weep and shed many a tear;
Asleep I do mourn, and awake I do cry,
And 'tis all for the sake of my darling I die.

Come saddle my horse that I may go ride
In search of my true love, let what will betide.
O'er lofty hills and mountains I'll wander and I'll rove

The Sun is on the Calabar, the Dawn is quenched in day
The stars of night are vanishing, her shadows flee away
The sandy plains of Etrei, flash back arising light
And The wild wastes of Northangerland, gleam bright as heaven is bright
Zamorna lifts her fruitful hills, like Edens to the sky,
And fair as Enna's field of flowers, her golden prairies lie
And Angria calls from mount, & vale from wood & heather dell,
A song of joy and thankfulness on rushing winds to swell
For Romalla has put his robe of regal purple on

My blessed Mother dozing in her chair
On Christmas Day seemed an embodied Love,
A comfortable Love with soft brown hair
Softened and silvered to a tint of dove,
A better sort of Venus with an air
Angelical from thoughts that dwell above,
A wiser Pallas in whose body fair
Enshrined a blessed soul looks out thereof.
Winter brought Holly then; now Spring has brought
Paler and frailer Snowdrops shivering;
And I have brought a simple humble thought
—I her devoted duteous Valentine—,
A lifelong thought which thrills this song I sing,

Most holy Night, that still dost keep
The keys of all the doors of sleep,
To me when my tired eyelids close
Give thou repose.

And let the far lament of them
That chaunt the dead day's requiem
Make in my ears, who wakeful lie,
Soft lullaby.

Let them that guard the horned moon
By my bedside their memories croon.
So shall I have new dreams and blest
In my brief rest.

Fold thy great wings about my face,
Hide dawning from my resting-place,
And cheat me with your false delight,
Most Holy Night.