[Illustration: The Barnum & Bailey

Greatest Show on Earth

Songster]


CLOWN SONG BOOK.




IN A SNUG LITTLE HOME OF YOUR OWN.

Words and music by Felix McGlennon.


    What are the fashions and follies of life!
      Only an empty dream;
    Only a burden of struggle and strife.
      As we drift adown the stream.
    A fig for your worldly pleasures,
      How very soon they cloy,
    But there ’mongst your sweet home treasures,
      You can find purest joy!

    CHORUS.--In a snug little home of your own,
             A snug little home of your own,
               With smiling faces ’round,
               True happiness is found,
             In a snug little home of your own.

    Seeking excitement, you often may go
      Out with the busy throng,
    And like a butterfly flit to and fro,
      As you sing a worldly song;
    When pleasure’s bright flame is burning,
      Into the blaze you fly,
    And then from temptation turning,
      For purer life you sigh.--CHORUS.

    When honest love in your heart finds a place,
      Bright as the sun’s your life;
    Plans for the future, in fancy you trace,
      With a sweet and pure young wife,
    You’re hopefully, tenderly gazing
      Into futurity--
    Bright castles in the air you’re building,
      Thinking when you will be--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 DEAR LITTLE FACE AT THE WINDOW.

Written and composed by Charles L. Miller.


    When homeward I stray at the close of the day,
      So wearied with labor and care,
    My heart soon grows light, with the vision so bright,
      Of the face that is waiting me there,
    As she stands in the window with mother close by,
      Who softly strokes each little curl;
    And soon as she sees me, so gladly she’ll cry,
      My own little dear baby girl!

                      CHORUS.
    ’Tis a dear little face at the window,
      With a smile and a heart full of glee;
    More precious than pearl, is my dear baby girl,
      Who waits at the window for me!

    How often I’ve thought of the joy she has brought,
      To home and to mother and me,
    Of one tearful day, when in sickness she lay,
      And we missed her sweet laughter so free,
    But the kind angels left her to our care and love,
      To brighten our home here below;
    And naught here on earth, or in Heaven above,
      Can equal our treasure, I know!--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1893, 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.




I DO LOVE YOU!

Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.


    Molly has climbed on her Dada’s knee,
      Molly has something to say;
    Only to whisper “I love you, Dad,
      And think of you all the day!
    When you go out in the morning, Dad,
      Ah, how I long for the night;
    Then you come home to your Molly dear,
      And the house seems so cheerful and bright.”

                      CHORUS.
    I do love you, I do love you,
    You’ve bought a dolly for your little Molly with hair so bright and
          eyes so blue;
    I’ll give you a kiss, a sweet little kiss, and may be I’ll give you
          two!
    Oh, my Daddy, my dear old Daddy, I do love you!

    Molly has climbed on his shoulders broad,
      “Let us play horses, my Dad!”
    See how they scamper around the house,
      And Molly is oh, so glad!
    Slyly she peeps in his pockets then,
      Thinking that Dad cannot see;
    Ah, the young rogue knows there’s something there,
      And Molly is laughing with glee.--CHORUS.

    Molly is tired of her romp at last,
      Dada must take her to bed,
    “Place little dolly beside me, please,”
      Now Molly her prayers has said.
    “Good-night, God bless you, my Dada dear,
      Kiss me, and kiss dolly too;
    I know you love little Molly, Dad,
      And you know that your Molly loves you.”--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1894, 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.




TO ERR IS HUMAN, TO FORGIVE DIVINE!

Written and composed by Felix McGlennon.


    Craving, craving for pity, a brother stands
      Before the brother he wronged in days gone by;
    “Help me, help me, forgive all the painful past,
      I’m starving, brother, oh help me, or I die!”
    One is poor and lowly, one has shining gold,
      The wealthy brother looks with scornful eyes,
    Will he help the suppliant, will he e’er forgive?
      Oh! hearken to his words as he replies:

                      CHORUS.
    “I once was poor and struggling, you were honored in the land,
    I once was nearly starving, you had riches at command,
    I went to you so humbly, and I asked a helping hand,
      In my face you closed your door, oh, brother mine!
    Now I am rich and you are poor, shall I revengeful be?
    No! for the sake of old times when we prayed at mother’s knee,
    You’re still my brother, I’ll forgive, share my prosperity,
      To err is human, to forgive divine!”

    Brooding, brooding, alone in a darkened room,
      A poor old father is mourning for his child;
    Sadly, sadly, he thinks of the daughter fair,
      Who by the tempter from home had been beguiled.
    His eyes grow hot with tears, his heart grows hot with rage,
      He thinks of how the base betrayer came;
    A knock! the door is opened, his erring child is there,
      And to the floor she sinks in abject shame.

                      CHORUS.
    “Begone and quit my sight,” he cries in accents stern and grim,
    “You’ve streaked my hair with grey that day you fled away with him,
    You broke your poor old mother’s heart, her eyes in death are dim,
      Begone, you are no longer child of mine!”
    But his heart goes back with anguish to the child that he loved
          best,
    The daughter fair and stainless ere she left the parent nest,
    And for her dear dead mother’s sake he clasps her to his breast,
      To err is human, to forgive divine!

    Stitching, stitching, in poverty and in pain,
      A woman’s toiling to earn her children bread;
    Daily, hourly, the needle ne’er seems to tire,
      Ah! slaves must work and their children must be fed.
    See her drunken husband, staggering in the room,
      “Curse you, give me money, I must drink!
    Come, now give the money, money, quick I say!”
      A blow, a kick, unconscious see her sink.

                      CHORUS.
    In drink besotted madness he rains on her kicks and blows,
    Till she lies there slowly dying, soon will end her earthly woes,
    And she feebly murmurs, “Harry, oh it darker, darker grows!”
      Then she babbles of the love of “Auld Lang Syne.”
    Crash! the officers of justice burst the door into the room,
    Will she speak the word and send her husband to a murd’rer’s doom?
    No! she loves still and silent bears her secret to the tomb--
      To err is human, to forgive divine!

  Copyright, 1894, 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.




DON’T BEAR ANY ILL FEELING.

By Felix McGlennon.

    When your angry passions rise, there’s a maxim you should prize,
      “Never let the sun go down upon your wrath,”
    Let your quarrels fade away ere there dawns another day,
      Let the sun of peace and love illume your path.
    It may be the friend of years who has grieved you with his sneers,
      And your temper may the flame of hate have fanned,
    But the promptings of your heart will compel you ere you part,
      To say, as you extend a friendly hand:

                      CHORUS.
          Don’t bear any ill feeling, forget and forgive,
          Shake hands, let us be friendly as long as we live,
          Life is too short for hatred, shake hands and don’t say “Nay,”
          Or you may plead for forgiveness yourself in vain some day.

    You may have an only child who in life is growing wild,
      By companions from the straight path led astray,
    He may cause you dark disgrace, till you learn to hate his face,
      And with anger turn him from his home away,
    ’Neath a parent’s bitter frown he may sink still deeper down,
      Ah, but lift him up and give him one more chance,
    Take him to your heart again and forget the bitter pain,
      Take him back and he will plead with tearful glance.--CHORUS.

    You may have a faithful wife, who is dearer far than life,
      Yet an angry word may rankle in her heart,
    Then your passions rise and rise, till the tears come in her eyes,
      And with hardened hearts you both decide to part,
    But a calm comes o’er the strife, as you gaze upon your wife,
      And your tho’ts go back to years of love and bliss,
    To the partner true and tried, ever faithful by your side,
      And you both plead for forgiveness with a kiss.--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1894, 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.




BACK TO THE OLD HOME AGAIN.

By Felix McGlennon.


    There’s a place that will ne’er be forgotten by me,
      ’Tis the cottage wherein I was born,
    And though years have rolled on, yet in fancy I see
      It there ’mid the tall waving corn.
    ’Twas humble, ’twas lowly, but ah! it contained
      My nearest and dearest on earth,
    And where’er I go, I am longing to be
      Once more in the home of my birth.

        CHORUS.--Back to the old home again,
                   Down in the country lane,
                 Back to the spot I’ve never forgot,
                   Back to the old home again.

    The green ivy clustered around the old walls,
      The breath of sweet flowers filled the air,
    The birds built their nests in the cosy thatched roof,
      Their songs drove away every care;
    I’d roam through the meadows, I’d climb o’er the hill,
      In childhood’s sweet innocent glee,
    My life was all sunshine, no sorrow or care,
      Oh, how I am longing to be:           --CHORUS.

    I’ve seen many lands, but no place seemed so fair
      As that dear little old-fashioned cot,
    I’ve made many friends, but my dear parents’ love
      I’ve never, no, never forgot.
    They’re anxiously waiting to welcome me home--
      They’re eager their fond love to show--
    I’m tired of the wand’rings and trials of life,
      And so once again I will go:          --CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1894, by FRANK TOUSEY, 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 Street, New York. Catalogues
  sent free upon application.




A BUNCH OF SHAMROCK FROM MY DEAR OLD MOTHER.

Words and music by Monroe H. Rosenfeld.


    One day there came to me from far across the sea,
      A letter and its words I read with tears,
    It brought a gem so dear my lonely heart to cheer,
      And told of those I had not seen for years.
    They nevermore can part this treasure from my heart,
      It came from one who blessed it with a tear,
    It brought the joys of old, its hopes and bliss untold,
      This bunch of shamrock from my mother dear.

                      CHORUS.
    A bunch of shamrock from my dear old mother,
    A treasure dearer far than any other,
    Though faded it shall rest upon my loving breast,
    This bunch of shamrock from my dear old mother.

    I see the cabin now, my mother’s saddened brow,
      I hear the voice that whispered sweet good-bye,
    “Remember, lad,” said she, “and true and honest be,”
      Her words within my heart can never die.
    Though oft the world is sad, my heart is ever glad,
      I roam the vales again with happy cheer,
    Ah, mem’ries sweet awake, when in my hand I take,
      This bunch of shamrock from my mother dear.--CHORUS.

    That mother now is dead, but still the words she said,
      Will bloom within my heart like buds of spring,
    I know the daisies wave so gently o’er her grave,
      And ’round that spot the sweetest mem’ries cling.
    So dear to me shall be this gift from o’er the sea,
      And dearer far it grows from year to year,
    When life from me shall part I’ll keep upon my heart
      This bunch of shamrock from my mother dear.--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1890, 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 KICK-UP-A-ROW BRIGADE.

Written by Harry Boden and Gus Williams. Composed by Felix McGlennon.


    A week ago, this very night, with half a dozen more of good old
          pals--jolly old pals,
    We went up town, the usual place, for fun and jollity,
    The spot you know where fellows go when out upon a spree;
    Johnson we made leader of the band,
    He took us in hand, marched us off so grand,
    Arm in arm, we to each other clung,
    While every comic song he knew old Johnson loudly sung:

                      CHORUS.
              All of us did the same,
              All of us played the game;
    Every one was a good old chum, rum-ti-id-dly-um-ti-um!
              None of us cared a hang,
              How much noise we made,
    We were all boys, good boys, of the “Kick-up-a-row Brigade!”

    We then went up the Bowery and soon were in the midst of all the
          fun--Bowery fun,
    It was both fast and furious, as you are well aware,
    We saw the elephant, the fox, the tiger and the bear,
    After which, the theatre we tried;
    Entrance was denied, we were put outside,
    Police then came to put matters right,
    When Johnson lost his temper and pulled off his coat to fight:--CHORUS.

    For half an hour we had what anyone might call a friendly scrap--a
          playful scrap,
    And language sweet and beautiful ascended to the skies;
    We’d broken noses, ditto hats and numerous black eyes;
    To the station house we all were borne,
    Ragged, bruised and torn, and the Judge next morn,
    Scratched his head, on Johnson fixed his gaze,
    And said, “Ten dollars fine, or take the usual thirty days”:--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1894, 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, 34
  and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon
  application.




BABY’S PRAYER.

By Felix McGlennon. Arranged by Chas. Page.


    Baby was up with the lark this morn,
      Laughing in childish glee,
    Romping and rolling around the house,
      Climbing on dada’s knee,

    But the shades of night are falling,
      And baby is tired with play;
    Softly he’s creeping to mama’s side,
      Gently he kneels to pray.

               REFRAIN.

    God bless mamma, God bless dada,
      God teach baby to do right;
    I’m tired and I’m sleepy, put me in my cot,
      Mamma and dada, good-night.

    Baby was up with the lark this morn,
      Coaxing for just one kiss,
    Filling with sunshine our humble home,
      Filling our hearts with bliss,
    Ah! we seemed to see a vision
      Of angels so bright and fair,
    Hov’ring around with protecting wings,
      List’ning to baby’s prayer.--REFRAIN.

    Baby was up with the lark this morn,
      Filling our hearts with joy,
    Humbly we knelt and prayed to Heaven,
      “Spare us our baby boy,
    From the paths of sin, oh, save him,
      And guard him from every snare.
    Deign to look down in Thy infinite love,
      Hearken to baby’s prayer.”--REFRAIN.

  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.




A PILLOW FOR THE WANDERER.

Words and music by J. P. Skelly.


    There’s a pillow for the wand’rer who is roaming far away,
    A haven for his weariness, a balm for his dismay;
    A heart whereon to lay his head, to find a couch of rest,
    A mother waiting patiently, with welcome, pure and blest,
    Though he has slighted long her love, that love will e’er forgive,
    And still receive him in her arms as long as he shall live,
    The mother-heart is keeping yet, with hope from day to day,
    A pillow for the wanderer, whose feet have gone astray.

    CHORUS.--There’s a light forever shining,
               Within the window-pane,
             To guide the weary prodigal,
               To home and love again,
             A tender welcome waits him,
               When at the door he’ll stand,
             And a pillow for the wanderer,
               Smoothed by a mother’s hand!

    There is sunshine for the wanderer whom wildest storms assail,
    A little nook of quietness where never sweeps the gale;
    The world with all its fading joys can offer no repose,
    Like that which now is waiting him, to bless him till life’s close,
    A loving one has sighed for him, and watched for his return,
    The light of hope within her breast has never ceased to burn.
    What though the outer world condemn? a gentle hand has spread
    A pillow for the wanderer to rest his weary head.--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1891, 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.




A KISS FROM YOUR OWN DEAR WIFE.

Words and music by Gus Williams.


    In this world I’ve had my pleasures, both upon the land and sea,
    Always looking upon the bright side, I’m contented as can be.
    All the joys of life I’ve tasted, nothing e’er has gone amiss,
    And the acme of enjoyment, simply lies in a sweet kiss!

                      CHORUS.
        A sweet little kiss when a baby
          You got from your mother dear,
        A kiss from the girl you loved when a boy,
          With love that was quite sincere;
        A kiss from the one you called sweetheart,
          While journeying on through life,
        But the sweetest of all that I can recall
          Is the kiss from your own dear wife.

    There’s a kiss, the kiss of parting, an unwelcome sad embrace,
    Other kisses are all sweetness, as they happen in their place;
    What’s a kiss, what does it taste like, can you tell me, now I ask?
    Even Webster can’t define it, to describe it is a task!--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1893, 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.




HER PAPA WAS THERE!

By Felix McGlennon.       Arranged by Monroe H. Rosenfeld.


        I went to see my best girl,
        One lovely evening, one lovely evening,
        My head was in a whirl
        As I approached her front door.
        At the window she was sitting there,
        And she looked so good, so pure and fair,
        And she smiled on me, I bowed, that’s all,
        But I must admit that I did not call.

                      CHORUS.
    For her papa was there, her papa was there,
    I saw his tin whiskers and bald head of hair,
    He’s a foot that can kick and a tongue that can swear,
    So I didn’t call, for her papa was there!

        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.

                      CHORUS.
              They are the best friends of all,
              No matter whate’er may befall,
              The comfort of his life,
              His children and his wife--
                They are the best friends of all.

    Now it makes his bosom glad, when the children run to dad,
      For then he has a romp with girls and boys;
    While his tender, watchful mate, smiling, greets him at the gate,
      Prepared to share his sorrows and his joys;
    And in illness or in health, and in poverty or wealth,
      When climbing up the hill or going down,
    There’s a kindly, loving smile, to greet him all the while,
      And even brighten fortune’s cruel frown.--CHORUS.

    Then when he is growing gray, as he journeys on his way,
      And Time has slightly bent his stalwart form;
    Tho’ his spirit may be bold, still with hearts of purest gold,
      They hasten to protect him from life’s storm--
    His old wife, with face so bright, is to him a ray of light,
      That with the children fills his home with love;
    ’Tis their pleasure and their pride, to be ever at his side,
      Until he’s called to higher realms above.--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1893, 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.




ONLY A LITTLE YALLER DOG.

By Felix McGlennon.


        I will tell you a tale of a little yaller dog,
          And he only was so high;
        As ugly a dog as you ever did see,
          And he only had one eye.
        His legs were bandy and his ears were cropped,
          His tail had a curl at the end,
        But I’ll tell you straight, that little yaller dog
          Was a true and faithful friend.

        CHORUS.--He was only a little yaller, yaller dog,
                   The ugliest in all the land,
                 But I’d sooner have a wag from that little dog’s tail,
                   Than the grip of a false friend’s hand.

        To the diggings I went with my little yaller dog,
          For he would not be denied,
        By day he would hang ’round the claim where I worked,
          And at night slept by my side.
        When luck was out, and when the food was scarce,
          My courage would nearly fail,
        But he’d comfort me with his joyous little bark
          And a wag of his little tail.--CHORUS.

        After years of toil, I a mighty nugget found,
          And I buried it where I slept,
        But one stormy night, as I slumbered so deep,
          ’Neath my tent a dim form crept--
        ’Twas my false friend Jim, and he on murder was bent,
          His hand held a gleaming knife,
        I awoke with a start, to see that yellow dog
          Grip his throat, and save my life.--CHORUS.

  Copyright, 1893, 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.




THE SHIP I LOVE.

By Felix McGlennon.


            A gallant ship was lab’ring,
              Lab’ring in the sea;
            The captain stood amongst his crew,
              “Gather ’round!” said he.
            “The ship is doomed and sinking,
              There on the lee is land,
            Then launch the boats and pull away,
              But here at my post I’ll stand.
                        Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!
                        Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!”

                      CHORUS.
    I’ll stick to the ship, lads, you save your lives,
    I’ve no one to love me, you’ve children and wives;
    You take to the boats, lads, praying to heaven above,
    While I’ll go down in the angry deep with the ship I love.

              The crew stood hesitating,
                Their hearts were staunch and true;
              With tear-dimmed eyes spoke up the mate,
                “Sir, we will die with you!”
              The captain cried, “What! Mutiny!
                I am the captain here!
              So launch the boats and pull away,
              And think of your children dear.
                          Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!
                          Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!”--CHORUS.

    The fierce winds howl ’round the sinking wreck,
    And the captain stands on the wave-washed deck;
      The good ship struggles like a thing of life,
      And the timbers groan in the awful strife;
    Slowly, slowly, sinking is she,
    But the captain, brave--ah, where is he?
      Down he goes to a sailor’s grave,
      As his last words are wafted across the wave:
                          “Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!
                           Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!”--CHORUS.

  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 25 cents. Address, FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher,
  34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Catalogues sent free upon
  application.




THE OLD, OLD FRIENDS, IN THE OLD, OLD HOME.

Composed by Felix McGlennon.


    In my wand’ring dreams, oft to me it seems,
      I can see the dear old home of youth;
    Fields and pleasant glade, where so oft I’ve played,
      Home of beauty, virtue, love and truth.
    Many years have passed since I saw it last,
      Since I went in foreign lands to roam;
    And where’er I be, still I love to see
      Faces of my dear old friends at home.

                      CHORUS.
      Oh! the old, old friends, in the old, old home,
        Are they thinking of the wand’rer o’er the foam?
      There’s a vacant chair, and I’ll soon be there,
        In the old, old home!

    O’er the distant years, thro’ a mist of tears,
      I recall my mother fond and true;
    “Good-bye, darling Jack, you will soon come back,”
      Thus with broken voice she bade adieu.
    Ah! the sad good-byes, tears were in all eyes,
      As once more I gripped each friendly hand;
    Do they think of me, far across the sea,
      Striving, toiling in a foreign land?--CHORUS.

    Once again I see faces dear to me,
      Longing for the wanderer’s return;
    O’er the boundless tide, by the old fireside
      Once again to be my heart doth yearn,
    Back to home and friends, there my journey ends,
      Soon again I’ll see my native shore;
    Loving hearts will greet when at length we meet,
      Meet to part on earth, ah! never more.--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.




DOWN AT THE FARM-YARD GATE.

By Felix McGlennon.


    Johnny Green once used to wait for his girl,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    With his whiskers trimm’d and a nice little curl,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    He would sit on the gate and he’d cry “Chuckoo!
    ’Aint you coming out, darling? do love, do,
    For my toes is cold and my nose is blue,”
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!

                      CHORUS.
    Oh, that farm-yard gate!
    Johnny was there, early and late,
    Whistling and singing, Are you coming out, Kate?
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!

    She would come out and they both would sing,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    And he then would talk like a silly thing,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    They would sit there for hours and they’d whisper low,
    Then her dad would come out and he’d laugh, Ho! ho!
    Then Johnny had to sit on the old man’s toe,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!--CHORUS.

    Now Kate’s little brother once took some tar
                          Down to the farm-yard gate!
    And he spread it all over the topmost bar,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    Now Johnny sat there, and he said “My duck,”
    And Kate sat there and she said “Chuck-chuck,”
    And they had to sit there for they both had stuck
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!--CHORUS.

    Those lovers ne’er speak now as they pass by,
                          Down to the farm-yard gate!
    If you go there you’ll find out the reason why,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!
    You’ll see a bustle if you’re not blind,
    A portion of pants you will also find,
    It’s the part that he used to wear behind,
                          Down at the farm-yard gate!--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.




SHE LEFT THE MAN WHO LOVED HER FOR ANOTHER.

Words and music by George Bruce and Felix McGlennon.


        In a little country village
          Lived a farmer and his wife,
        She was young and rich with beauty,
          Sunshine of her husband’s life;
        But the snake crept in his Eden,
          In the guise of trusted friend,

        And the dreams fond love had cherished,
          Came they to a fatal end;
        One night when he reached his homestead,
          His fond heart was turned to stone,
        She, the wife he loved so dearly,
          With his dearest friend had flown!

                      CHORUS.
    She left the man who loved her for another,
      She was the sunshine of his life;
    Her vows of faith and duty she’d forgotten,
      Broke the link that made them man and wife!

        In a handsome furnished chamber
          Stand betrayer and betrayed;
        He is scornful; she is pleading;
          Ah! what havoc Time has made!
        She is white-faced, trembling, hopeless,
          And she feels dishonor’s shame,
        For the man who stands before her,
          She has ruined a husband’s name;
        He, grown weary of his victim,
          Says, “’Tis better we should part!”
        In his soul there is no pity
          For her crushed and breaking heart.--CHORUS.

        In the streets of a great city,
          One cold, bitter winter’s night,
        On a door-step lies a woman,
          ’Round her fall the snowflakes white;
        By her side a man is kneeling,
          “Mary!” is his bitter cry--
        “You for months I have been seeking,
          Now I’ve found you, do not die!”
        Hear her pleading for forgiveness,
          As he clasps her to his breast,
        Just one kiss, one murmured “good-bye!”
          And her soul in death finds 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.




SCENES FROM THE DRAMA OF LIFE.

Written by Norton Atkins. Composed by Felix McGlennon.


      Life is but a mighty drama,
        Wherein each must play a part;
      Some with happy, smiling features,
        Others with an aching heart.
      When night falls upon the city,
        See a man with darken’d face,
      He’s a burglar and his object
        Breaking in this rich man’s place.

                      CHORUS.
    See with what vigor his “jimmy” he plies,
    Leaps thro’ the window, “Now for it!” he cries,
    “Hark! what is that? an alarm, a surprise,”
                He mutters with terror now rife.
    Then comes a flash, a report of a gun,
    A man on his knees crying, “What have I done!
    Oh God! I have kill’d him, the scapegrace, my son!”
                That’s a scene from the Drama of Life!

      ’Tis the gory field of battle,
        Where the conflict rages high,
      And the two opposing armies
        Now have sworn to do or die.
      See this brave young private soldier,
        ’Mid the crash of shot and shell,
      He has proved himself a hero,
        Bravely he has fought and well.

                      CHORUS.
    Wounded he lies when the battle is o’er,
    Thinking of those on a far-distant shore,
    Thinking of those he will see never more,
                Thinking of his children and wife.
    “Merciful God! who is Great and All-wise,
    Save them from danger!” he tearfully cries,
    One murmur’d prayer and he falls back and dies,
                That’s a scene from the Drama of Life!

  Copyright, 1894, 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.




ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS.

Words by George Horncastle. Music by Felix McGlennon.


            Just upon the stroke of midnight,
              See a man walk down the street,
            He for work all day has hunted,
              Is heart-broken, sore of feet;
            He looks for a lowly lodging,
              When there comes a piteous cry
            From a woman, “I am starving,
              Help me, sir, or I shall die!”

                      CHORUS.
    He thinks of that coin, his night’s lodging ’twill pay,
      Then looks on that face and its tresses so gray,
    Then in charity gives his last penny away,
      Actions speak louder than words.

            From the club at early morning,
              Someone’s husband’s just come home,
            He’s been gone six hours and over,
              Went out for ten minutes’ roam;
            Thus he’s greeted by his spousey:
              “Where have you been all the night?
            Can’t you speak, you helpless idiot?
              Tell me, are you speechless tight?”

                      CHORUS.
    He gives a sly wink, then he throws down his hat,
      Tries to pull off his boots, then he tumbles down flat,
    Hangs his watch on the floor, goes to sleep on the cat,
      Actions speak louder than words.

  Copyright, 1891, by FRANK TOUSEY. Entered at Librarian of
  Congress, Washington, D. C., U. S. A., and Stationer’s Hall,
  London, England. 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.




Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.