I have purposely refrained from giving any Nigger songs, although they belong to Street melody, except in the case of “Jim Crow,” which was the first of the flood which has been let loose upon us. There were many versions, but I have here given the copyright words, as sung by the author, and original “Jim Crow,” Thomas D. Rice, or, as he was better known, “Adelphi Rice.” He introduced it, in 1836, into a play called “A Flight to America,” and it so tickled the ears of the groundlings that it became the most popular of all modern street ballads. We may wonder what merit our grandfathers and fathers found in it, but it created an absolute furore. _THE WORKHOUSE BOY._ THE cloth was laid in the Vorkhouse hall, The great-coats hung on the white-wash’d wall; The paupers all were blithe and gay, Keeping their Christmas holiday, When the Master he cried with a roguish leer, “You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer!” When one by his looks did seem to say, “I’ll have some more soup on this Christmas-day.” Oh the poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc. At length, all on us to bed vos sent, The boy vos missing--in search ve vent: Ve sought him above, ve sought him below, Ve sought him vith faces of grief and woe; Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night; Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright, Ven a young pauper cried “I knows ve shall Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pal.” Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc. Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew; Ve sought down the yard, ve sought up the flue; Ve sought in each kettle, each saucepan, each pot, In the water-butt look’d, but found him not. And veeks roll’d on;--ve vere all of us told, That somebody said, he’d been burk’d and sold; Ven our master goes out, the Parishioners vild, Cry “There goes the cove that burk’d the poor child.” Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc. At length the soup copper repairs did need, The Coppersmith came, and there he seed, A dollop of bones lay a grizzling there, In the leg of the breeches the poor boy did year! To gain his fill the boy did stoop, And, dreadful to tell, he was boil’d in the soup! And ve all of us say, and ve say it sincere, That he was push’d in there by an overseer. Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc. [Illustration] _THE WILD ROVER._ I’ve been a wild rover these seven long years, I’ve spent all my money in ale and strong beers, But the time has come my boys, to take better care, Unless poverty happens to fall to my share. _Chorus._ So therefore I’ll lay up my money in store, And I never will play the wild rover any more; Wild rover, wild rover, wild rover, any more, And then I will play the wild rover no more.