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In the good old Indiana,

In the dear old Hoosier state,
Stands a cottage on a hillside,

Where love reigns supremely great;
And the lovelight falls on faces
That to me in dreams are near,
For my mother is among them
And my kindred, all so dear.


O Indiana, dear Indiana,
You are my childhood's only sweetheart,
O Indiana, dear Indiana,
Now from thee, in grief, I part.

Looking from the dear old home
I can see the woodland cool,
Where in childhood's days we roamed
When returning home from school;
Gath'ring wild-flowers precious store,
By the clear and babbling brook,
Till our hands could hold no more,
Ere our homeward way we took.

As the sea shell, when 'tis carried
Far away, will sing of home,
With as loyal heart and true,

So will I where e'er I roam;
Sing the praises of the state
Where I first the light did see,
In the little vine-grown cot

'Mid the sunshine flow'r and tree.

Now, dear Father in the heaven,
Who bestowest earthly love,
May this love of state help fit us
For the home reserved above.
For the earthly home thou gavest
Is but kindred to Thine own,
Just a place to make us ready
To approach Thy glorious throne.

Words and music postpaid, 15c, W. W. Rowland & Co., 2357 Cedar Ave., Cleveland

Edison Blue Amberol 2648


June time, what is that I hear?
Spoontime ringing in my ear;
It seems to want to say
Come, dream in Monterey
Once more with me, my dear.
I seem to see you there with me.

In Monterey, where fishes play,
We sailed away across the bay;
Your eyes of blue were playful, too;
"Twas then I knew what eyes could do.
Forget the thrill I never will, dear,
For now until I'm old and gray
I'll bless the day-in Monterey,

The day that you stole my heart away.
Junetime, birds are on the wing;
Spoontime, mission bells will ring,
As in the days of yore,

When on that peaceful shore,

Our songs of love we'd sing,

Could you but be once more with me.

Victor Record 17883

Copyrighted 1915 by Daniels & Wilson, Inc., San Francisco,


For complete copies send to Daniels & Wilson, Inc.,
233 Post St., San Francisco, Calif.


I would that my love could silently
Flow in a single word;

I'd give it the merry breezes

They'd waft it away in sport.

To thee on their wings, my fairest,
That soul-felt word they would bear,
Shouldst hear it at ev'ry moment,
And hear it ev'rywhere.

At night when thine eyelids in slumber
Have closed those bright heav'nly beams,
Still there, my love, it will haunt thee,
E'en in thy deepest dreams.

Columbia Record 1275


Long years ago, in old Madrid,

Where softly sighs of love the guitar, Two sparkling eyes, a lattice hid,

Two eyes as darkly bright as love's own star! There on the casement ledge, when day was o'er, A tiny hand was lightly laid.

A face look'd out as from the river shore,

There stole a tender serenade!

Rang the lover's happy song,

Light and low from shore to shore. But ah! The river flow'd along

Between them evermore.


Come, my love, the stars are shining,
Time is flying, love is sighing,
Come, for thee a heart is pining,
Here alone I wait for thee.

Far, far away, from old Madrid,

Her lover fell, long years ago, for Spain,

A convent veil those sweet eyes hid,

And all the vows that love had sighed were vain.
But still, between the dusk and night, 'tis said,
Her white hand opes the lattice wide,

The first sweet echo of that serenade
Floats weirdly o'er the misty tide,

Still she lists her lover's song,

Still he sings upon the shore,

Though flows a stream than all more strong,
Between them evermore.

Columbia Record 962



In the heart of dear old Ireland

Grew a little Irish rose;

In the garden of Killarney

And so the story goes;

This sweet rose was loved by a soldier boy

Who loved her for his own;

Now the rose droops her head,

For the sunshine has fled,

Since he left her all alone.



When he marched away with the colors gay
From that dear little Isle of green
There were two hearts grieving,
For he was leaving,

His little Irish queen.

Now the war is o'er he'll return no more,
To the land where shamrock grows,
He took all gladness and left but sadness,
In the heart of an Irish rose.

In the garden of Killarney,

Pretty rose now droops her head,
By the magic stone of Blarney,
And the petals are all dead;

The perfume that lingered within her heart

Has gone forevermore,

For a colleen must sigh,

And the roses must die,

Since he left his sweet Asthore.

Used by permission, words and music copyright 1916 by FRANK K. ROOT & CO., CHICAGO, ILL.

Pathe Record 10074



In the Cross of Christ I glory,

Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of Time;
All the light of sacred story

Gathers round its head sublime.

When the woes of life o'er take me,
Hopes deceive and fears annoy;
Never shall the cross forsake me
Lo! it glows with peace and joy.

When the sun of bliss is beaming,
Light and love upon my way;
From the cross the radiance streaming,
Adds more luster to the day.

Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the cross are sanctified;

Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.

Victor Record 17013



She wanted to roam, so she left the old home,

The old peoples' hearts were sore;

She longed for the sights and the bright city's lights,
Where hundreds had gone before.

She went to the heart of the city,
And mingled with strangers there;
But nobody said, "You are being misled,"
For what did the strangers care.


In the heart of the city that has no heart,
That's where they meet and that's where they part,
The current of vice has proven too strong,
So the poor little girlie just drifted along.
Nobody cared if she lived or died,
Nobody cared if she laughed or cried,

She's just a lost sister, and nobody missed her,
She's there in the city, where there's no pity,
In the city that has no heart.

Columbia Record 1521

Copyright and published by Daly Music Publishers, Inc., 665 Washington St., Boston, Mass.

It came upon the midnight_clear,
That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold.

"Peace on the earth-good will to men❞
From heaven's all gracious King,
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still thro' the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled
And still the heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world.
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hov'ring wing,
And ever over its Babel sounds,
The blessed angels sing.

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow,

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