SAVE MY BROTHER'S WHISKERS FROM THE PAIL.
Written by James McAvoy.
Tune - "Save My Mother's Picture from the sale."
We've been thinking of the day when my brother, like a jay,
Started into raisin whiskers on his chin.
So one day he shaved his snout, and in a week they started out.
Till at last they came in contact with the wind;
In a growler or a jug he was the first to put his mug,
No matter cider, lager beer, or ale;
When he'd go to take his first then the gang to me have cursed
And said: Go save your brother's whiskers from the pail.
The dear old lush had whisker- like a brush.
At a distance they looked like a horse's tail,
But it always was my job to assist my brother slob,
While drinking, save his whiskers from the pail.
For to work he was too strong, for this world he was not long.
Because he was too short for to get tall.
Still his whiskers on a pinch even day grew an inch.
Till they used to trip him up and make him fall,
We used to give him shots till he tied them up in knots.
Like an overskirt he fixed them up in a loop;
When at dinner he'd sit down I would have to be around,
For to save my brother's whiskers from the soup.
His whiskers were like wire and twice as red as fire;
I tried hard to avoid him when I could;
When he'd take me rainy days to go smoking Henry Clays,
Then I'd save my brother's whiskers from the mud.
One day upon the street a strange copper on the beat
Saw my brother had them combed out like a broom.
So instead of to a station house he ran him up an alley.
And steered him right into an auction-room;
They tried to sell his whiskers to the seven Southerland sisters;
But a girl Of his that, just got out of jail
She ran right in the place and she grabbed my brother's face.
And she saved my brothers whiskers from the sale.
That dear old face it came within an ace;
if he ever lost them, he'd look like a pig;
But to another second more they'd have these sluggers that he wore,
So he saved my brother's whiskers from the wig.