I Had but Fifty Cents

H. J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., N. Y.

I Had but Fifth Cents

I took my girl to a fancy ball—
It was a social hop,
But we stayed until the folks went out,
And the music it did stop;
Then to a restaurant we went—
The best one in the street;
She said she wasn’t hungry,
But this is what she eat:
A dozen raw, a plate of slaw
A chicken and a roast;
Some sparrow grass and apple sass,
And soft-shell crabs on toast;
A big box-stew, and crackers, too,
Her appetite was immense.
When she called for pie, I thought I’d die,
For I had but fifty cents.

She said she wasn’t hungry—
She didn’t care to eat;
Now I’ve got money in my clothes
To bet she can’t be beat:
She took it in so cosy,
She had an awful tank,
She said she wasn’t thirsty,
But this is what she drank;
A whiskey skin, a glass of gin—
It made me shake with fear;
Some ginger pop, with rum on sop,
A schooner, then, of beer;
A glass of ale, a gin cock-tail,
She ought to have had more sense.
When she called for more, I dull on the floor,
For I had but fifty cents.

You bet I wasn’t hungry—
I didn’t care to eat,
Expecting every moment
To be kicked out in the street;
She said she’d bring her family round
Some day, and we’d have fun,
They I gave the man the fifty cents,
And this is what he done:
He tore my clothes, he mashed my nose,
He hit me in the jaw;
He gave me a prize of a pair of black eyes,
And with me swept the floor;
He took me where my clothes hung loose,
And threw me over a fence.
Take my advice, don’t try it twice,
When you’ve got but fifty cents.

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