The Boston Burglar


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

The Boston Burglar.

I was born in Boston,
A city you all know well;
Brought up by honest parents—
The truth to you I’ll tell—
Brought up by honest parents
And raised most tenderly,
’Till I became a sporting man
At the age of twenty-three.

My character was taken
And I was sent to jail;
My friends found that it was in vain
To get me out on bail;
The jury found me guilty,
The clerk he wrote it down,
The Judge then passed my sentence—
I was sent to Charlestown.

To see my aged father
A standing at the bar,
Likewise my aged mother
A tearing of her hair—
The tearing of her old grey locks,
While the tears came rolling down,
Saying: “Son, dear son, what have you done,
That you are sent to Charlestown.

I was put on board an eastern train,
That cold December day,
And every the station that we passed,
I’d hear the people say:
There goes that Boston burglar,
In strong chains he’ll bound;
For some crime or another,
He is off Charlestown.

There is a girl in Boston,
A girl that I love well,
And if ever I get my liberty,
Along with her I’ll dwell;
And if ever I get my liberty,
Bad company I’ll shun,
Likewise night walking, gambling,
And also drinking rum.

All you who have your liberty,
Pray keep it if you can,
And don’t to ‘round the streets at night
To break the laws of man,
For if you do you’ll surely rue,
And find yourself like me,
Who am serving out my twenty-one years
In the penitentiary.

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