So Lonesome Now

Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, They always had lots an’ lots o’ pie, An’ toy automobiles an’ v’locipedes An’ walkin’ toys, like a fellow reads About sometimes, but he seldom sees, An’ swings out under th’ big oak trees, An’ childurn a-playin’ on every bough-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ try An’ see if they couldn’t get some new toys For Henry an’ all of us other boys ’At played with him; an’ she used t’ make Th’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake, An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over’t Henry Murray’s, why, His mother ’ud see you goin’ by An’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ play With Henry an’ all of his toys, some day. An’ every Christmas she’d have a tree With presents, th’ finest you ever see, An’ nobody got forgot, somehow-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by, An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside. Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ cried An’ says he don’t care--it was ’ist too bad, ’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had. An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough-- An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.