H. J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., N.Y.
My name is Joe Bowers; I’ve got a brother Ike;
I came from old Missouri, all the way from Pike;
I’ll tell you why I left thar, and why I came to roam,
And leave my poor old mammy so far away from home:
I used to court a gal thar, her name was Sally Black,
I axed her if she’d marry me, she said it was a whack;
Says she to me, Joe Bowers, before we hitch for life,
You ought to get a little home to keep your little wife.
Oh, Sally, dearest Sally; oh, Sally, for your sake
I’ll go to California, and try to raise a stake;
Says she to me, Joe Bowers, you are the man to win;
Here’s a kiss to bind the bargain, and she hove a dozen in.
When I got in that country, I hadn’t “nary red,”
I had such wolfish feelings, I wished myself most dead;
But the thoughts of my dear Sally soon made them feelins git,
And whispered hopes to Bowers, I wish I’em yit.
At length I went to mining, put in my biggest licks,
Went down upon the boulders just like a thousand bricks;
I worked both late and early, in rain, in sun, in snow—
I was working for my Sally; ’twas all the same to Joe.
At length I got a letter from my dear brother Ike—
It came from Old Missouri, all the way from Pike;
It brought to me the darndest news that ever you did hear—
My heart is almost bustin’, so pray excuse this tear.
It said that Sal was false to me, her love for me had fled,
She’d got married to a butcher—the butcher’s hair was red;
And more than that the letter said—it’s enough to make me swear—
That Sally had a baby; the baby had red hair.
Now I’ve told you all about this sad affair,
’Bout Sally marrying a butcher—that butcher with red hair.
But whether ’twas a boy or gal child, the letter never said,
It only said the baby’s hair was inclined to be red.