When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm, With a wonderful plumpness about it; Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
My husband’s gone and left me In the hills of Brown; Forsaken me on account of Others of this little town.
He’s always been a blacksmith; I treated the man well; The last words he told me Were, I’d better go to hell.
It was awful hard to swallow, Hard to get it down. Now he’s forsaken me for Others of this little town.
He wants a younger woman In his older day; He says I’m getting old, And am turning gray.
I always tried to treat him right And do the best I could, But the worst words he could Say to me always done him good.
He is getting old and I am getting gray; But he’ll see the time he’ll wish He hadn’t went away.
He’s gone and left me And left me all alone; Perhaps he’ll take one with him He can call his own.
He’s gone and left me In the hills of Brown; Forsaken me on account of Others of this little town.
He’s mine; let him go; God bless him where’er he may be; He can travel the wide world over And never find one like me.
’Twas dawn by a western water tank, One cold November day; There in an open boxcar, A dying hobo lay.
His partner stood beside him, With a sadly drooping head, Listening to the last words That the dying hobo said.
Good-by old pal, I’m going To a land where all is bright, Where handouts grow in the bushes, And you can sleep out every night.
The dying hobo’s head dropped back, And as he sang his last refrain, His partner stole his shoes and socks And grabbed an eastbound train.
_Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,_ _I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,_ _For it’s good to be good,_ _But I’m not made of wood,_ _Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue._
The shadows lay along Broadway, ’Twas near the twilight tide— And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And honor charmed the air, And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good and fair— For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true— For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo— But honored well are charms to sell If rites the SELLING do.