McNALLY'S WICKED WIFE.
Copyright, 1890, by W. F. Shaw.
Words by Wm. D. Hall. Music by Frederick Silva.
Up town there lives a stevedore, McNally is his name,
His genial disposition has gained for him much fame,
Like other working people he likes his drop of rum.
And under its influence he is always in for fun.
When out he goes on rackets his wife gets mad of course.
Time and again she's threatened that she'd get a divorce.
To keep him home she locks the door, like any wife of sense,
But thro' the window then he'll sneak And jump the back-yard fence.
Zing, zang, biff, hang! is the racket you can hear
Down at McNally's when they're both at home.
Most wrecked, hen-pecked, the man's afraid to say a word;
The very air McNally breathes he dare not call his own.
McNally's wife, to mend his ways, a plot she did conspire-
To a hardware-store she went and bought some new barbed-wire.
Upon the fence she stretched it, not once she thought of cats.
Her object was to try and stop McNally going for rats-
That day when work was over McNally went straight home.
His wife's malicious doings to him were quite unknown;
He dressed himself up in his best, to paint the city red,
And jumped the fence to dodge his wife, but now he's nearly dead.
Poor man, he ran to try and get away from her;
Both ran together, it " was a thrilling sight;
He jumped, she thumped, When he tangled in the wire;
It looked more like murder than an ordinary fight.
Upon the fence where he was stuck, he yelled out for relief.
Which brought a copper to the scene, who took him for a thief.
The nippers he put on him, and blackened both his eyes.
Then used him for a foot-ball by way of exercise.
McNally's wife flew at him and grabbed his red goatee,
And beat him with a poker, while the cop was referee, i
Then to the station he was marched without his nose and ears.
And there he'll stay for many moons, he's laid up for repairs.
In jail, no bail, he will have to stay a bit,
Bent like a pretzel, through his Mary Ann,
No nose, torn clothes, proves he got the worst of It-
The only thing for Mac to do is do the best he can.
His working days are over now, all thro' his wicked wife,
He swears her only object was to try and take his life;
His Sunday suit of broadcloth looks like a flag of truce.
He'll stand a bar-room licking, but not his wife's abuse;
The neighbors in their gossip all say it was a sin.
And wonder what her object was in trying to kill him.
When he's released no doots she'll lock when he wants to go out.
And never more the fence he'll jump, he'll take another route.
He's sad and mad, because she got the best of it.
But he was lucky to get off with his life;
Most dead, in bed he will have to stay a bitI'd rather have pneumonia than McNally's wicked wife.