The office-boy hums it, The book-keeper drums it, It's whistled by all on the street; The hand-organ grinds it, The music-box winds it, It's sung by the "cop" on the beat. The newsboy, he spouts it, The bootblack, he shouts it, The washwoman sings it all wrong; And I laugh, and I weep, And I wake, and I sleep, To the tune of that popular song. Its measures are haunting my dreaming; I rise at the breakfast-bell's call To hear the new chambermaid screaming The chorus aloud through the hall. The landlady's daughter's piano Is helping the concert along, And my molars I break on the tenderloin steak As I chew to that popular song. The orchestra plays it, The German band brays it,         'T is sung on the platform and stage; All over the city They're chanting the ditty; At summer resorts it's the rage. The drum corps, it beats it, The echo repeats it, The bass-drummer brings it out strong, And we speak, and we talk, And we dance, and we walk, To the notes of that popular song. It really is driving me crazy; I feel that I'm wasting away; My brain is becoming more hazy, My appetite less every day. But, ah! I'd not pray for existence, Nor struggle my life to prolong, If, up some dark alley, with him I might dally Who wrote that new popular song. The bone-player clicks it, The banjoist picks it, It 'livens the clog-dancer's heels; The bass-viol moans it, The bagpiper drones it, They play it for waltzes and reels. I shall not mind quitting The earthly, and flitting Away 'mid the heavenly throng, If the mourners who come To my grave do not hum That horrible popular song.  

 

     MATILDY'S BEAU 

  I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,—the kind That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind; But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hain't shut so tight But I can add up two and two and get the answer right; So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin' awful late, And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate—   And when that gate got saggin' down 'bout ha'f a foot er so—   I says ter mother: "Ma," says I, "Matildy's got a beau." 

 

  We ought ter have expected it—she's 'most eighteen, yer see; But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me; And so, a feller after her! why, 

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