| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
The mud-jeweller's clerk. 30
" Get up! turn out, you lazy lout!
Don't lay and snooze all day; Come and dress yourself, and go down
And pitch off that load of hay!"
For it's 'Siah, 'Siah, etc.
I've hardly time to draw my breath—
Saw. wood, split wood, fetch water! It's 'Siah here, and 'Siah there,
From father, mother, and daughter. I've stood their drudging long enough,
And I'm getting a little stronger; And I'll be gosh-fired chawed all up
If I'll stand it any longer!
For it's 'Siah, 'Siah, etc. |
||
|
THE MUD-JEWELLER'S CLERK. Sung by J. T. Boyce.
My father was raised as a dark in Hoboken,
The man that he clarked for was named Mr. Dodd; And among all the clarks there was none like my father—
For he was the dark, sure, that carried the hod! One day, as he was climbing right up a steep ladder,
With bricks in his hod and a brick in his hat, And just as he lifted his foot for a second,
A rung it gave way, and he came down ker-slap!
Chorus—Whack, fol de row de dow, etc.
They sent for a coroner, then for a doctor—
The latter was late, but the former was not; A jury was held, and a verdict was given:
The cause of his death was drinking his whiskey too hot. So there I was left a nate little orphan,
Without any clothes and without ary cint, Surrounded by those whose intentions wcpre only
To stick to my back till my money was" spint. , Whack, fol de row, etc |
||
|
I |
||