Near The Broken Stile

American - Winslow Homer

Near The Broken Stile

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Title: Near The Broken Style, Composed By: Frank Romer, Published By: Oliver Ditson & Co., Year: 1857

Cover Lithograph By: Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

Winslow Homer is regarded by many as the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century. Born in Boston and raised in rural Cambridge, he began his career as a commercial printmaker, first in Boston and then in New York, where he settled in 1859. For Homer, the late 1860s and the 1870s were a time of artistic experimentation and prolific and varied output. He resided in New York City, making his living chiefly by designing magazine illustrations and building his reputation as a painter.

Early in the morning, ‘mid the meadows gay,
While the breeze was scented with the new mown hay,
Ev’ry bud and blossom sweetly seem’d to smile,
When by chance, he met me, near the broken stile.
Little, then, was spoken, yet did he disclose
Thoughts, that came like perfume from the op’ning rose;
Ev’ry bud and blossom sweetly seem’d to smile,
When, by chance, he met me, near the broken stile.

Soon beside the altar, hand in hand we stood,
Heart to heart responded truly as they should,
While above the vallies rose the morning sun,
Voices whispered round us, he and I were one.
Since that morn with pleasure ev’ry hour’s been rife,
He calls me his treasure, and his darling wife,
Gladly we remember, when with loving smile,
Promises were given near the broken stile.

Gently flow’rs were blooming, and the golden corn
In the breeze was waving, at the early morn;
When, again, I met him, ling’ring near the stile,
Swift he came to greet me with a gentle smile.
Earnest words were spoken, wand’ring by my side,
Till he gain’d my promise that I’d be his bride.
Oh! I love the morning when, with gentle smile,
Swift he came to greet me, near the broken stile.


Katy Darling

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Title: Katy Darling, Publisher: Oliver Ditson & Co., Location: Boston, Year: 1853

Cover Lithograph By: Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

Winslow Homer is regarded by many as the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century. Born in Boston and raised in rural Cambridge, he began his career as a commercial printmaker, first in Boston and then in New York, where he settled in 1859. For Homer, the late 1860s and the 1870s were a time of artistic experimentation and prolific and varied output. He resided in New York City, making his living chiefly by designing magazine illustrations and building his reputation as a painter.

 Oh! they tell me thou art dead. Katy, darling,
That thy smile I may never more behold!
Did they tell thee I was false, Katy, darling,
Or my love for thee had e’er grown cold?
Oh, they know not the loving
Of the heart that beats for thee;
When a love like to thine, Katy, darling,
Is the goal to the race set for me.
Oh, hear me, sweet Katy.

Chorus.
For the wild flow’rs greet me, Katy, darling,
And the love-birds are singing on each tree;
Wilt thou never more hear me, Katy, darling;
Behold, love, I’m waiting for thee.

I’m kneeling by thy grave, Katy, darling!
This world is a bleak world to me;
Oh, could’st thou hear my wailing, Katy, darling,
Or think, love, I am sighing for thee;
Oh, methinks the stars are weeping,
By their soft and lambent light;
And thy heart would be melting, Katy, darling,
Could’st thou see thy lone Dermot this night.
Oh, listen, sweet Katy” -Chorus.

‘Tis useless all my weeping, Katy, darling!
But I’ll pray that, thy spirit be my guide;
And that when my life be spent, Katy, darling,
They will lay me down to rest by thy side.
Oh, a bitter grier I’m hearing,
Though I scarce heave a sigh;
And I’ll ever be dreaming, (tailing,
Of thy love every day till I die.
Farewell, then, sweet Katy.-Chorus.


The Star Spangled Banner

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Title: The Star Spangled Banner, Written By: Francis Scott Key, Arranged By: Francis H. Brown, Published By: Oliver Ditson & Co., Location: Boston, Year: 1856

Cover Lithograph By: Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

Winslow Homer is regarded by many as the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century. Born in Boston and raised in rural Cambridge, he began his career as a commercial printmaker, first in Boston and then in New York, where he settled in 1859. For Homer, the late 1860s and the 1870s were a time of artistic experimentation and prolific and varied output. He resided in New York City, making his living chiefly by designing magazine illustrations and building his reputation as a painter.


The Ratcatcher’s Daughter

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Title: The Ratcatcher’s Daughter, Composed By: Sam. Cowell, Published By: Oliver Ditson & Co., Location: Boston

Cover Lithograph By: Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

Winslow Homer is regarded by many as the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century. Born in Boston and raised in rural Cambridge, he began his career as a commercial printmaker, first in Boston and then in New York, where he settled in 1859. For Homer, the late 1860s and the 1870s were a time of artistic experimentation and prolific and varied output. He resided in New York City, making his living chiefly by designing magazine illustrations and building his reputation as a painter.

Not long ago in Vestminster
There lived a rat catcher’s daughter
But she didn’t quite live in Vestminster
Cos she lived t’other side of the water
Her Father caught rats and she sold sprats
All round and about that quarter
And the gentlefolk all took off their hats
To the pretty little rat catcher’s daughter.

Chorus: Doodle dee, doodle dum, di dum doodle da

She vore no ‘at upon ‘er head
No cap nor dainty bonnet
The ‘air of ‘er ‘ead all ‘ung down her back
Like a bunch of carrots upon it
Ven she cried “Sprats” in Vestminster
She ‘ad such a sweet loud voice
You could hear her all down Parliament Street
As far as Charing Cross, sir

Chorus:

Now rich and poor, both far and near
In matrimony sought her
But at friends and foes she turn’d up her nose
Did the putty little rat catchers daughter
For there was a man, sold lily-vite sand
In cupid’s net had caught her
And right over head and heals in love
Vent the putty little rat catcher’s daughter,

Chorus:

Now lily-vite sand so ran in her head
As she vent along the Strand, Oh
She forgot as she’d got sprats on her head
And cried “D’y vant any lily-vite sand, Oh”
The folks, amazed, all thought her crazed
As she vent along the Strand, Oh
To see a gal with sprats on her head
Cry “D’y vant any lily-vite sand, Oh,”

Chorus:

Now rat catcher’s daughter so ran in his head
He couldn’t tell vat he was arter
So instead of crying “D’y vant any sand”
He cried “D’y vant any rat catcher’s daughter?”
His donkey cocked his ears and laughed
He couldn’t think vat he was arter
Ven he heard his lily-vite sandman cry
“D’y vant any rat catcher’s daughter?”

Chorus:

They both agreed to married be
Upon next Easter Sunday
But rat catcher’s daughter she had a dream
That she wouldn’t be alive on Monday
She vent once more to buy some sprats
And she tumbled into the water
And down to the bottom, all kiver’d up with mud
Vent the putty little rat catcher’s daughter.

Chorus:

Ven lily-vite sand ‘e heard the news
His eyes ran down with water
Said ‘e in love I’ll constant prove
And – blow me if I’ll live long arter
So he cut ‘is throat vith a pane of glass
And stabbed ‘is donkey arter
So ‘ere is an end of lily-vite Sand
Donkey, and the rat catcher’s daughter.

Chorus:

The neighbours all, both great and small
They flocked unto ‘er ‘berrein’
And vept that a gal who’d cried out sprats
Should be as dead as any ‘herrein’
The Coroner’s inquest on her sot
At the sign of the Jack i’ the Vater
To find what made life’s sand run out
Of the putty little rat catcher’s daughter.

Chorus:

The verdict was that too much vet
This poor young woman died on
For she made an ole in the Riviere Thames
Vot the penny steamers ride on
‘Twas a haccident they all agreed
And nuffink like self-slaughter
So not guiltee o’ fell in the sea
They brought in the rat catcher’s daughter.

Chorus:


The Wheelbarrow Polka

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Title: The Wheelbarrow Polka, Composed By: Major Ben. Perley Poore, Publsihed By: Oliver Distson & Co., Location: Boston, Year 1856

 

Benjamin_Perley_Poore,_circa_1850

Major Ben. Perley Poore of Newbury Made a bet with Col. Robert I. Burbank of Boston, on the Presidential vote in Massachusetts. The bet doomed the loser to wheel a barrel of apples from his house to the house of the winner. The Colonel won the bet, and the Major started the next morning from Newbury (36 Miles from Boston) with the apples (notwithstanding that Col. had promptly released him from the Conditions of the bet) and arrived at the Tremont House the third day at 2 1/2 o’ clock – where in the presence of at least 30,000 enthusiastic spectators the most interesting cerimonies took place between the parties.


O! Flossie! Pretty Little Flossie!

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Title: O! Flossie! Pretty Little Flossie!, Written By: Richard Morton, Composed By: Orlando Powell, Sung By: Little Chip, Publisher: Francis, Day & Hunter, Location: London, Year: 1893

 

Little sweetheart, up above me,
Come and tell me how you love me,
Flossie don’t you be a scorner,
I’ll wait round the Johnny ‘Orner!
I know and yer needn’t flare up,
It’s a job to do yer ‘air up;
But yer might as well look slippy,
Standin’ ‘ere is somewhat nippy!
Fairer than my words can paint yer,
Flossie, you’re my sweetheart, ain’t yer?

Chorus: Oh, Flossie! Pretty little Flossie!
Oh, Flossie, listen to my song,
When you’re out with me, at night,
Everything is gay and bright,
But when yer leave me on my own,
It all goes wrong!

Flossie, though the street is narrer,
Cold is strikin’ to my marrer,
‘Urry up with that there bonnet,
That with feathers stuck upon it.
If yer hears me, wave a flipper,
Though you’re tall and I’m a nipper,
Don’t be proud and nasty to me,
For my ‘eart is yours, yus, bloo me!
Fairer than my words can paint yer,
Flossie, you’re my sweetheart, ain’t yer?

Chorus:

If young Jimmy Jones should rile yer,
Tell me and I’ll burst his biler,
For I loves yer and yer know it,
Don’t care what I does to show it.
Flossie, out ‘ere, soon be ‘opping,
Tell the dad you’re going shopping,
‘Urry up, my love, my cherished,
For I, wee, I’m nearly perished.
Fairer than my words can paint yer,
Flossie, you’re my sweetheart, ain’t yer?

Chorus:


Death or an Honorable Life

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Title: Death or an Honorable Life; Rogers Quickstep, Composed By: Allen Dodworth, Dedicated To: Capt. Charles O. Rogers, Published By: H.B. Dodworth, Location: New York, Year: 1856

The Boston Light Infantry, formed in 1798, is one of the oldest militia organizations in the nation’s history.


The Wreath

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Title: The Wreath, Composed By: Henry Schwing, Published By: Oliver Ditson & Co., Location: Boston

Cover Lithograph By: Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

Winslow Homer is regarded by many as the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century. Born in Boston and raised in rural Cambridge, he began his career as a commercial printmaker, first in Boston and then in New York, where he settled in 1859. For Homer, the late 1860s and the 1870s were a time of artistic experimentation and prolific and varied output. He resided in New York City, making his living chiefly by designing magazine illustrations and building his reputation as a painter.

 


The Quadroon Girl

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Title: The Quadroon Girl, Written By: Longfellow, Composed By: M.W. Balfe, Location: London, Publisher: Boosey & Sons, Year: 1842

The Quadroon Girl

The Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moored with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied,
And all her listless crew
Watched the gray alligator slide
Into the still bayou.

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,
Reached them from time to time,
Like airs that breathe from Paradise
Upon a world of crime.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch,
He seemed in haste to go.

He said, “My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon;
I only wait the evening tides,
And the rising of the moon.”

Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,
Like one half curious, half amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long, raven hair.

And on her lips there played a smile
As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights in some cathedral aisle
The features of a saint.

“The soil is barren,–the farm is old,”
The thoughtful planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accurséd gains:
For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,
He led her by the hand,
To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

 

 


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About The Curator

Carol Seelig Eastman is the Executive Director and Chief Curator of The Knohl Collection. In this role, she passionately explores the artist’s personal, social, and political world and places their art in a meaningful historical context. Her thematic exhibitions provide visual and educational stimulation that attract and engage a diverse museum audience.