Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life; It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight — It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn For the life of a hobo, never to return.
The hobo's heart it is light and free, Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee!— Farewell to thee, for it's far away The homeless hobo's footsteps stray.
In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim, It's any path is the one for him! He'll take his chances, long or short, For to meet his fate with a valiant heart.
Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car, And it's beauty-beaut’ at the pigs-feet bar; But when his drinks and his eats is made Then the hobo shunts off down the grade.
He camps near town, on the old crick-bank, And he cuts his name on the water-tank — He cuts his name and the hobo sign,— “Bound for the land of corn and wine!”
( Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through, And the friends also that he'ps you, too,— Oh, I like all friends,‘ most every kind But I do n't like friends that do n't like mine. )
There's friends of mine, when they gits the hunch, Comes a swarmin’ in, the blasted bunch,— “Clog-step Jonny” and “Flat-wheel Bill” And “Brockey Ike” from Circleville.
With “Cooney Ward” and “Sikes the Kid” And old “Pop Lawson” — the best we had — The rankest mug and the worst for lush And the dandiest of the whole blame push.
Oh, them's the times I remembers best When I took my chance with all the rest, And hogged fried chicken and roastin’ ears, too, And sucked cheroots when the feed was through.
Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line, And it's little he cares for schedule time; Whatever town he's a-striken for Will wait for him till he gits there.
And whatever burg that he lands in There's beauties there just thick for him — There's beauty at “The Queen's Taste Lunch-stand,” sure, Or “The Last Chance Boardin’ House” back-door.
He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in, To git the hang o’ the world ag'in; But the laundry circles he moves in there Makes him sigh for the country air,—
So it's Good-by gals! and he takes his chance And wads hisself through the workhouse-fence: He sheds the town and the railroad, too, And strikes mud roads for a change of view.
The jay drives by on his way to town, And looks on the hobo in high scorn, And so likewise does the farmhands stare — But what the haids does the hobo care!
He hits the pike, in the summer's heat Or the winter's cold, with its snow and sleet — With a boot on one foot, and one shoe — Or he goes barefoot, if he chooses to.
But he likes the best, when the days is warm, With his bum Prince-Albert on his arm — He likes to size up a farmhouse where They haint no man nor bulldog there.
Oh, he gits his meals wherever he can, So natchurly he's a handy man — He's a handy man both day and night, And he's always blest with an appetite!
A tin o’ black coffee, and a rhuburb pie — Be they old and cold as charity — They're hot-stuff enough for the pore hobo, And it's “Thanks, kind lady, for to treat me so!”
Then he fills his pipe with a stub cigar And swipes a coal from the kitchen fire, And the hired girl says, in a smilin’ tone,— “It's good-by, John, if you call that goin’!”
Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life, It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight — It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn For the life of a hobo, never to return.
Be our fortunes as they may, Touched with loss or sorrow, Saddest eyes that weep to-day May be glad to-morrow.
Yesterday the rain was here, And the winds were blowing — Sky and earth and atmosphere Brimmed and overflowing.
But to-day the sun is out, And the drear November We were then so vexed about Now we scarce remember.
Yesterday you lost a friend — Bless your heart and love it!— For you scarce could comprehend All the aching of it;—
But I sing to you and say: Let the lost friend sorrow — Here's another come to-day, Others may to-morrow.
I can n't extend to every friend In need a helping hand — No matter though I wish it so, ‘ Tis not as Fortune planned;
But haply may I fancy they Are men of different stripe Than others think who hint and wink,— And so — I smoke my pipe!
A golden coal to crown the bowl — My pipe and I alone,— I sit and muse with idler views Perchance than I should own:—
It might be worse to own the purse Whose glutted bowels gripe In little qualms of stinted alms; And so I smoke my pipe.
And if inclined to moor my mind And cast the anchor Hope, A puff of breath will put to death The morbid misanthrope
That lurks inside — as errors hide In standing forms of type To mar at birth some line of worth; And so I smoke my pipe.
The subtle stings misfortune flings Can give me little pain When my narcotic spell has wrought This quiet in my brain:
When I can waste the past in taste So luscious and so ripe That like an elf I hug myself; And so I smoke my pipe.
And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds I watch the phantom's flight, Till alien eyes from Paradise Smile on me as I write:
And I forgive the wrongs that live, As lightly as I wipe Away the tear that rises here; And so I smoke my pipe.
Marcellus, wo n't you tell us — Truly tell us, if you can,— What will you be, Marcellus, When you get to be a man?
You turn, with never answer But to the band that plays.— O rapt and eerie dancer, What of your future days?
Far in the years before us We dreamers see your fame, While song and praise in chorus Make music of your name.
And though our dreams foretell us As only visions can, You must prove it, O Marcellus, When you get to be a man!
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