King Cotton.

Old Cotton is king, boys--aha!
    With his locks so fleecy and white!
He shines among kings like a star!
    And his is the sceptre of right,
            Boys, of right,
    And his is the sceptre of right!

Old Cotton, the king, has no care,
    No queen, and no heir to his throne,
No courtiers, his triumphs to share,
    He rules his dominions alone,
            Boys, alone!
    He rules his dominions alone!

Old Cotton, the merry old boy!--
    Like smoke from the pipe in his mouth
His years glide away in their joy,
    At home, in the warm sunny south,
            Boys, the south,
    At home, in the warm sunny south!

Old Cotton will pleasantly reign
    When other kings painfully fall,
And ever and ever remain
    The mightiest monarch of all,
            Boys, of all,
    The mightiest monarch of all!

Then here's to old Cotton, the king!
    His true loyal subjects are we:
We'll laugh and we'll quaff and we'll sing,
    A jolly old fellow is he,
            Boys, is he,
    A jolly old fellow is he!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Years Ago.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Millionaire.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Seasons of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Willie.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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King Cotton.

King Cotton looks from his window
Towards the westering sun,
And he marks, with an anguished horror,
That his race is almost run.

His form is thin and shrunken;
His cheek is pale and wan;
And the lines of care on his furrowed brow
Are dread to look upon.

But yesterday a monarch,
In the flush of his pomp and pride,
And, not content with his own broad lands,
He would rule the world beside.

He built him a stately palace,
With gold from beyond the sea;
And he laid with care the corner-stone,
And he called it Slavery:

He summoned an army with banners,
To keep his foes at bay;
And, gazing with pride on his palace walls,
He said, "They will stand for aye!"

But the palace walls are shrunken,
And partly overthrown,...

Horatio Alger, Jr.

Cotton And Corn. A Dialogue.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
    As they met and exchanged a salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
    Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
    "To hint at starvation before you,
"Look down on a poor hungry devil,
    "And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,
    Perceiving he meant to make free--
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
    "The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth
    "Should waste our illustrious acres,
"For no other purpose on earth
    "Than to fatten curst calico-makers!--

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend--
    "Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
"Great dealers in lawn,...

Thomas Moore

Cotton-Wool

Shun the brush and shun the pen,
Shun the ways of clever men,
When they prove that black is white,
Whey they swear that wrong is right,
When they roast the singing stars
Like chestnuts, in between the bars,
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

When you see a clever man
Run as quickly as you can.
You must never, never, never
Think that Socrates was clever.
The cleverest thing I ever knew
Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo.
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Homer could not scintillate.
Milton, too, was merely great.
That's a very different matter
From talking like a frantic hatter.
Keats and Shelley had no tricks.
Wordsworth never climbed up s...

Alfred Noyes

Epistle Of Condolence. From A Slave-Lord, To A Cotton-Lord.

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!
    How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights!
Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,
    Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller
    Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion,
No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller.
    Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please
    With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,
We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,
    And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;--farewell to the zest
    Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip;
Which makes still the cruellest...

Thomas Moore

Life in the West.

Ho! brothers--come hither and list to my story--
    Merry and brief will the narrative be.
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory--
    Master am I, boys, of all that I see!
Where once frowned a forest, a garden is smiling--
    The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
    The children who cluster like grapes round my door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
The land of the heart is the land of the West!
        Oho, boys!--oho, boys!--oho!

Talk not of the town, boys--give me the broad prairie,
    Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free:
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,
    Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea!
A life in the woods, boys, is even as chang...

George Pope Morris

Western Refrain

    Droop not, brothers!
            As we go,
    O'er the mountains,
Under the boughs of mistletoe,
    Log huts we'll rear,
While herds of deer and buffalo
    Furnish the cheer.
File o'er the mountains--steady, boys
    For game afar
We have our rifles ready, boys!--
            Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
    Like chaff, boys!--ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!--
    Hah--hah--hah!

    Cheer up, brothers!
            As we go,
    O'er the mountains,
When we've wood and prairie-land,
    Won by our toil,
We'll reign like kings in fairy-land,
    Lords of the soil!
Then westward ho! in legions, boys--
    Fair Freedom's star
Points to her sunset regions, boys--
            Aha!
Throw care to the wind...

George Pope Morris