But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life, You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife; Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry, It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.
You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend But your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean. With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,-- I advise you by experience that life to refuse.
Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around; Here is luck to the single wherever they are found. Here is luck to the single and I wish them success, Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.
I have one more request to make, boys, before we part. Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart. She is dancing before you your affections to gain; Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.
The sun had gone down O'er the hills of the west, And the last beams had faded O'er the mossy hill's crest, O'er the beauties of nature And the charms of the fair, And Amanda was bound With her white bosom bare.
At the foot of the mountain Amanda did sigh At the hoot of an owl Or the catamount's cry; Or the howl of some wolf In its low, granite cell, Or the crash of some large Forest tree as it fell.
Amanda was there All friendless and forlorn With her face bathed in blood And her garments all torn. The sunlight had faded O'er the hills of the green, And fierce was the look Of the wild, savage scene.
For it was out in the forest Where the wild game springs, Where low in the branches The rude hammock swings; The campfire was kindled, Well fanned by the breeze, And the light of the campfire Shone round on the trees.
The campfire was kindled, Well fanned by the breeze, And the light of the fire Shone round on the trees; And grim stood the circle Of the warrior throng, Impatient to join In the war-dance and song.
The campfire was kindled, Each warrior was there, And Amanda was bound With her white bosom bare. She counted the vengeance In the face of her foes And sighed for the moment When her sufferings might close.
Young Albon, he gazed On the face of the fair While her dark hazel eyes Were uplifted in prayer; And her dark waving tresses In ringlets did flow Which hid from the gazer A bosom of snow.