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Her dad is awfully good, Never goes giddy, never goes giddy, Won’t look at anything rude, That’s what his family thinks. But a giddy show I went to see, Where the ladies’ skirts just reached the knee. Others danced in tights, some one said, “Bravo,” Who was it? why, right in the very front row
CHORUS. Her papa was there, her papa was there, I swore I would give him away I declare, But he promised he’d give me his daughter so rare, So I didn’t tell that her papa was there!
Her dad hates young men who spree, Says that he never takes a drink ever That is stronger than tea, Temperance leader is he. Now I went one day upon a lark, And I made things howl long after dark, And I staggered by, tripped up and fell, A policeman shoved me into a cell.
CHORUS. And her papa was there, her papa was there, And part of the floor with his nobs I did share; It was ten dollars fine and both fines he did square, Oh! wasn’t I glad that her papa was there!
I went once to the race track To see the racers go through their paces, With “touts” both white and black; Winners I never could lack, So I bet upon a stunning mare, For she couldn’t lose, all did declare, But she came in last, as I turned and saw A face I well knew and oh, dear! oh, law--
CHORUS. Her papa was there, her papa was there, He had on his face such a look of despair, He was cleaned out and “busted” I heard him declare, So I wasn’t alone, for her papa was there!
I went to see my best girl, One lovely morning, one lovely morning, Off to church we did whirl, Quickly we two were made one. Oh, the wedding breakfast was sublime, And we had a good old, gay old time, And we drank and toasted “luck and wealth,” Then some one got up and proposed our health--
CHORUS. And her papa was there, her papa was there, He said good, young fellows like me were so rare; He made them then think me a saint, I declare, Oh, wasn’t I glad that her papa was there!
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
ALWAYS MIND YOUR SISTER, JENNIE.
Words and music by Chas. Graham.
A plain little cottage, a cold winter’s day, A fond mother’s life slowly ebbing away, Two sisters in tears standing there by her bed, To hear the last words that their dearest friend said. One sister to womanhood lately had grown, The other to fifteen years scarcely could own. The poor mother knew that the youngest was wild, So her counsel she gave to her fair, youngest child; “There are things, little girl, that you can’t understand, There are lures and temptations, dear, on ev’ry hand, You will find, little Jennie, thro’ sorrow and woe, That your sister will comfort and love you, I know!”
CHORUS. “Always mind your sister, Jennie, She’s the dearest friend of any, You will need her, darling heed her, and you’ll never have a fear; She will be a mother to you, Let her life be happy through you, Just believe her, don’t deceive her, always mind your sister dear.”
A street in the city, a warm summer’s night, A tall, pretty lassie, a youth gay and bright, She, laughing and talking as slowly they passed, He, thinking, “My angel, I’ve got you at last!” “Suppose we have supper, my pretty,” he says, “I know where to take you, a nice quiet place, Of course you’ll say ‘yes,’ for it’s not very late, And then I will see you as far as the gate.” But before she could answer, a form that she knew, Came quickly towards her, ah! what should she do? Her sister was calling, “Come, Jennie, away,” And the dear voice of mother again seemed to say:--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
I HANDED IT OVER TO RILEY.
By Felix McGlennon.
There never were two stauncher pals Than I and my chum, Johnny Riley, We’d booze together or flirt with gals, And we valued each other highly; Whenever there was any booze to be got, Or somebody paid for the keg or pot, I would collar the measure and gulp the lot, Then I handed it over to Riley.
CHORUS. For Riley and I were chums and we always shared Black eyes or sugar plums, the divil a hair we cared, When there was anything nice about, take my word, That when I had done I handed it on to Riley!
One day while I was on a spree Along with my chum, Johnny Riley, One of those men they call a “D” Came in and surveyed us slyly, Then he grabbed me gently by the ear, And whispered “Young man, I’ve a warrant here!” Well, I took that warrant with the greatest fear, Then I handed it over to Riley.--CHORUS.
One night I found a watch and chain, While out with my chum, Johnny Riley, And he for his share did soon complain And he did it so awfully wily, But as by a lamp we chanced to pass, I saw by the light of the flaring gas That the watch was gold but the chain was brass, So the chain went over to Riley.--CHORUS.
One sweet spring morn I took a wife, My best man of course was Riley, I thought she’d be the joy of my life, For she acted so very shyly; But I soon found that marriage was no great fun, For she chased me round the house with a gun, Till I said, “Dear madam, with you I’ve done!” And I handed her over to Riley.--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
A MOTHER IS THE TRUEST FRIEND OF ALL.
Words by Eunice Monroe. Music by Robert Stanton.
We meet with many friendships as we journey o’er life’s way, And sunny smiles around us oft are cast; But one is ever faithful, changing ne’er from day to day, Who always stands beside us till the last, In poverty or woe, her heart is ever true. And tho’ the darkest shadows o’er us fall, She’ll be your truest friend, forever to the end, A mother is the truest friend of all.
CHORUS. While journeying on thro’ life, In sorrow or in strife, No matter what temptations may befall, You’ll always find a friend, Who’s faithful to the end, A mother is the truest friend of all.
You have a loving sister, who will think of you thro’ life, A brother who will never turn aside; You’ll know the fond affection of a dear devoted wife, Whose smile will cheer you on your journey wide; Perhaps they will be true, when trouble lingers near, Yet one is sure to answer to your call, No matter where you roam, her heart is still your home, A mother is the truest friend of all.--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1894, by FRANK TOUSEY, New York, and entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore St., New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
OH! MR. HITCHIN!
Written by W. H. Archbold and Monroe H. Rosenfeld. Composed by Felix McGlennon.
Now Mr. Hitchin, gentleman, loved buxom widow Brown, And Mrs. Brown a daughter had, a girl of great renown. When Mr. Hitchin called one day and found the widow out, He seemed so disappointed that the girl cried with a pout:
CHORUS. “Oh! Mr. Hitchin! Oh! Mr. Hitchin! Won’t you stay awhile within our cosy little kitchen; Mother dear is out, sir, so is brother Jack, But I can entertain you till mamma comes back!”
Now Mr. Hitchin thought the girl the fairest he had seen, And said: “My dear, how old are you?” She answered, “Seventeen.” And as she with her own fair hands made him a cup of tea, He tried to steal a kiss, and then the maiden cried with glee:--CHORUS.
As Mr. Hitchin drank the tea, he bold and bolder grew, He squeezed the maiden’s hand and said: “Oh, ducky, I love you!” And then he put his arm around--well, where it shouldn’t be, While Katie cried: “Oh! Mr. Hitchin, stop! you’re tickling me!”--CHORUS.
Just then old Missis Brown appeared, and, mad with jealousy, Cried, “Oh, you wretch! that’s more than ever you would do for me!” She grabbed his whiskers, punched his ribs, and screamed, “Here’s where you die!” And as he jumped the window, he could hear sweet Katie cry:--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1895, by FRANK TOUSEY. Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
KISS MY DEAR OLD MOTHER, JACK.
By George Bruce and Felix McGlennon.
Far away from dear Columbia, In a land across the foam, Lies a mother’s darling dying, Far from kindred, friends and home; And his comrade kneels beside him, With the tear-drops in his eye, Listening to the poor lad’s message As he says the last good-bye.
CHORUS. Kiss my dear old mother, Jack, And say it came from me, The boy who ran away from home, And went across the sea; Ask her to forgive me, Jack, Her wild and erring lad, And say that I died with a prayer on my lips, For her and dad.
Ah! the day I well remember, That I ran away to sea, Dad and I had hotly quarrelled, And in passion he struck me, I struck him back, oh! Heaven, forgive me! To the docks I made my way, Stowed myself on board a vessel That was due to sail that day.--CHORUS.
Bear the message to my mother, How I died a life to save, How I snatched a helpless infant From a cruel fiery grave; An humble cottage fiercely burning, A frantic mother shrieking wild, ’Mongst the flames I dashed like lightning, Gave my life but saved the child.--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
A MOTHER’S WELCOME.
Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.
A wayward boy got tired of home, And said, “I’ll go to sea, I’ll travel all the wide world o’er, From home restraints be free.” His mother said, “Don’t leave me, Jack, You are my only joy.” But all in vain, he’d have his way, So she said to the boy:
CHORUS. “Good-bye, darling, good-bye, dear, Don’t forget the loving heart that’s waiting for you here, When you’re sad and weary and no more you wish to roam, Your mother still will welcome you, at ‘Home, sweet home!’”
The foolish boy went off to sea, Despite his mother’s tears, No letter reached her from the lad For many weary years. He led a wild and reckless life, But sometimes in his sleep His mother’s sweet face he would see, And she would sadly weep.--CHORUS.
The poor old mother waited, And she’d sadly smile and say: “My boy will tire of rambling And come back to me some day. The world to him may cruel be, The soiled and weary dove Will fly back to the parent nest To find a mother’s love.”--CHORUS.
At last he tired of rambling, And he longed for peace and rest, And for his mother’s love he yearned, His dearest friend and best. But like a flower neglected, She had pined away and died. On earth his only comfort is, The last words that she cried:--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 10 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.
A soldier brave bade his wife “good-by,” To battle he had to go, Bravely he fought, bravely he fell, Fell with his face to the foe. Sadly she mourns for her darling one, As the shadows around her creep, Thinking of him she will ne’er see again, She’s sinking in slumber deep.
REFRAIN.
But light shines out of the darkness, A loving face is there, She hears a voice that whispers, Banishing gloomy care; And loving lips are pressed to hers ’Till earth like Paradise seems, She sees her husband once again In the land of dreams.
A wayward boy by the camp-fire sits, A letter he reads from home, “Come back asthore, mother’s no more, Come back and no longer roam; Ah! how she drooped when you left here, dear, Ay, she drooped ’till her poor heart broke, Watching and waiting for you to return, Your name was the last she spoke.”
REFRAIN.
He sinks in tears by the camp-fire, And breathes to Heaven a prayer, He thinks of her heart-broken, He thinks of her silvery hair; He hears a voice, “I forgive you, dear,” Then earth like Paradise seems, He sees his mother once again In the land of dreams.
A mother sits by an empty cot, And weeps in the twilight grey, Sad is her heart, dim are her eyes, Baby has passed away; “God’s will be done,” ah! the solemn words, To her poor wounded heart brings joy, Dreaming is she of the world ’yond the stars, When she’ll meet her baby boy.
REFRAIN.
And two soft arms creep around her, An angel face is there, The light of Heaven is shining, On a halo of golden hair; And angel lips are pressed to hers, ’Till earth like Paradise seems, She sees her baby once again In the land of dreams.
Copyright, 1893, by FRANK TOUSEY. Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York, Catalogues sent free upon application.
THE SAME SWEET BELLS ARE RINGING.
Words and Music by Arthur Sinclair.
There’s a picture in my mem’ry of a happy country home, Where a mother and her children dwelt for years; There’s a picture in my mem’ry of a father, stern and old, And a daughter who once fled that home in tears! On a Sabbath morning early, as the church bells sweetly rang, From the nest of joy and comfort where the happy birdlings sang, I can see the scene before me as a mother begged and prayed, And the picture of the daughter who had strayed.
CHORUS. The same sweet bells are ringing, The same sweet birds are singing, The same sweet vines are clinging, To the home of her youth in the lane! The same sweet lips are sighing, The same sweet eyes are crying, The same sad heart is dying, But she’ll never return again!
She was guiltless as an angel, so the story goes, they say, But the passion of a father little heeds; So, with bitter hate and anger in a frenzied mood, one day, He drove her forth to taste life’s bitter weeds! ’Twas in vain the mother pleaded, for the one whom she loved best, And in vain her voice came ringing, “Oh, come daughter, on me rest!” Then the door was softly opened and just like a caged bird, The child she loved had gone without one word.--CHORUS.
But hark! to the bitter wailing of the storm--’tis a dreadful night; As over the deck of the ferry there darts a flash of light! And lo! ’midst the raging torrent that falls from the starless dome, A form leaps out in anguish and sinks in the troubled foam! All the past is now forgotten, and when dawn shines o’er the deep, There’s a soul at rest forever, there’s a broken heart asleep.--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1893, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 25 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
HE NEVER CARES TO WANDER FROM HIS OWN FIRESIDE.
By Felix McGlennon. Arranged by Monroe H. Rosenfeld.
Various men have various natures, Some prefer to cross the wave, O’er the world they like to travel, For fresh scenes they seem to crave, To their birth-place some cling fondly, And their hearts are in one spot, See the man whose home is Eden, Happy in his humble cot!
CHORUS. He never cares to wander from his own fireside! He never cares to ramble or to roam; With his children on his knee he’s as happy as can be, For there’s no place like home, sweet home!
How his face with joy is beaming, When the worldly toil is o’er, As with eager step he hastens To his humble cottage door. Little children run to meet him, Pleading for a fond caress, There amongst his well-beloved ones He can find true happiness!--CHORUS.
There’s a wife to fondly greet him, With the lovelight in her eyes, There’re the children ’round their daddy, Home to him is Paradise! Baby’s arms are round him clinging, Baby’s lips to his are pressed, All is peace and love and comfort, In his home he finds sweet rest!--CHORUS.
Copyright, 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY. The complete words and music of this song will be sent by mail for 20 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon application.
THEY ARE THE BEST FRIENDS OF ALL.
Written by Theo. Norman. Composed by Felix McGlennon.
Oh, the fairest spot on earth is to man of little worth, Unless he finds some fellow-creature there; But a true and loving friend to the poorest will lend An ever cheerful, bright and sunny air. When the sun sinks in the west, and the toiler seeks his rest, The thought of home his weariness will cheer, For he knows ’tis there he’ll find honest friends both true and kind, His ever faithful wife and children dear.