Any work for me! No! I am sorry— For I'm weary, and hungry and cold; You're wishing to hear my life's story? 'Tis the first time it ever was told. Yes, friend, I will tell you. A sorrow Extinguished the flame from life 's lamp; Which made me a wanderer—an outcast— And why I am now called—a tramp.
Well friend, I once was as happy As that little boy over there,— My cheeks were as rosy and chubby, And my soft, golden curls just as fair. But I then knew the care of a mother— A mother as noble and good As God ever gave to a fellow, And she did just the best that she could,
To show me the path straight and narrow, And I never once wanted to stray Away from her side, where she taught me Each morning, and evening, to pray. At length, when I attained manhood, The crowning joy came to my life; And never was husband more happy Than I, with my sweet little wife.
And she loved me so fondly and truly, It made all my toil seem like play; I was working for her, and for baby— Baby Charlie I call him alway. Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones, And a good sum of money to spare; 'Twould have been like the Garden of Eden Had the Serpent not gained entrance there.
But I had a dear friend—Jim Daley, The chum of my boyhood and youth; And true, like a brother I loved him— For I thought him the ideal of Truth. At school we were always together. E'er shared with each other our joy; And only God knows how I loved him— This handsome, and proud, winsome boy.
And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him With all that was sacred and dear To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully— Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear. But one day he complained of reverses— Said his money just then was not free— There were bills he must pay on the morrow— And he wanted to borrow of me.
So I loaned him all of the money I had saved for some chance rainy day,— And in less than a month I was homeless— My family were kidnapped away! What inducement he tendered, I know not, Or whether 'twas mesmeric power Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie From me and our beautiful bower.
Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him— Would duty, and right, say I must? Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship To him who has broken that trust? I can only pray God to forgive him— And me. For with memory's stamp Comes the knowledge of why I am needy— And why people call me—a tramp.
I sold our dear cot mid the roses, And stealthily set out to trace The whereabouts of my dear loved ones, And I wandered from place to place At last came the sorrowful tidings Of a ship going down in a gale,— Their names, on the list of the lost ones! And this is the end of the tale.
From my great sorrow then I sought refuge, And I drifted from east to the west; In my young days I worked hard and steady. In every place doing my best. But now there's no work,—I 'm heart broken— Alone, in the cold and the damp,— To my poor heart it seems—save in Heaven There's no room for the poor, aged tramp.
