Don't Put My Father's Picture Up For Sale.
'Tis many years ago, in the time of frost and snow,
My poor old father fell ill and he died;
Tho but a child then-my age was scarcely ten-
They cast me friendless on the world aside.
My father went the pace all through life's busy race,
And when he died it was the same old tale;
For the little one bereft there was next to nothing left,
They even put his picture up for sale.
My father's face, his dear old face,
His loss I ever shall bewail;
Don't break an orphan's heart, from that don't bid me part,
Don't put my father's picture up for sale.
In the auction room they laughed, they bargained while they chaffed
But I sat in the corner sad to mourn;
While every relic old of my childhood's days they sold,
I felt as though my heart was racked and torn.
The chairs on which he sat and with me used to chat,
All passed away like chaff before the gale;
My heart beat fierce and fast, I was forced to say at last,
Don't put my father's picture up for sale.-Chorus.
The picture was passed round and a bidder quickly found.
In a lovely little angel English girl,
With cheeks of rosy hue, and eyes of heaven's blue,
Her head a mass of sunny golden curl.
Even now for her I die-she whispered: "Do not cry!"
To joy she turned my sad and piteous wail;
She bought it but for me, twist happiness and glee.
She saved my father's picture from the sale.-Chorus.