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American Ballads and Folk Songs
Oh, Brigham, Brigham Young,
It's a miracle how you survive,
With your roaring rams and your pretty little lambs
And your five and forty wives.
Number forty-five is about sixteen,
Number one is sixty and three;
And they make such a riot, how he keeps them quiet
Is a downright mystery to me.
For they clatter and they claw and they jaw, jaw, jaw,
And each has a different desire;
It would aid the renown of the best shop in town
To supply them half what they desire.
Now, Brigham Young was a stout man once,
And now he is thin and old;
And I am sorry to relate he is bald on the pate,
Which once had a covering of gold.
For his oldest wives won't have white wool,
And his young ones won't have red,
So, with tearing it out, and taking turn about,
They have torn all the hair off his head.
Now, the oldest wives sing songs all day,
And the young ones all sing songs;
And amongst the crowd he has it pretty loudó
They're as noisy as Chinese gongs.
And when they advance for a Mormon dance
He is filled with the direst alarms;
For they are sure to end the night in a tabernacle fight
To see who has the fairest charms.