HIS MASTER'S VOICE
When he swells up his chest and raises his chin.
And talks with a gusto that sounds like sin;
And boasts of his valor and strength and all
Save his yellow streak and his store of gall:
You may think he's a hero of countless affrays.
And a gallant knight of chivalric days,
Who has humbled a million men, bold and bad.
But it's only whisky that's talking, m'lad!
When he recites a wierd tale of conquests made.
Of tests of arms and the cold, steel blade;
Of escapades that make you shiver and shake
As your spine grows as cold as a coiling snake:
You may think he's a hero of some bloody war
Where men were butchered and slaughtered galore;
Where human life was a mere tinsel toy—
But it's only whisky that's talking, m'boy!
For whisky talks above the din of the crowd
In tones that are husky or falsetto loud:
A hero it makes of the cowardly knave,
And a creeping toad of the strong and brave;
And the man of wealth is poor when he's drunk
While the pauper counts bullion by the chunk:
And virtue and goodness are lost in the bad—
When whisky starts talking—and boasting—m'lad!
GIVE ME THE LOVE OF A CHILD
Oh, give me the love of a little child,
An' grant me the right to claim
The fond, soft pats o' his chubby hands
As he seeks to lisp my name!
Oh, give me the love of a little child,
An' grant me the pow'r to say
A prayer for him in the quiet night
When his toys are laid away!
Oh, give me the love of a little child,
When my eyes grow weak an' dim,
An' the golden sun o' life sinks down
O'er Eternity's purple rim!
Oh, give me the love of a little child.
An' I'll prize it evermore
When my lonely ship goes a-sailin' on
For a far an' misty shore!
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