American Old Time Song Lyrics: 29 He Was A Pal Of Mine
Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 29
HE WAS A PAL OF MINE
Copyright, I860, by M. Witmark & Sons.
Words by M. J. Cavanagh. Music by Isidor Witmark.
Ned and I were schoolmates many years ago,
I loved him like a brother, he returned my love, I know;
Our lives had not a shadow of care or sorrow then;
We never dream't how fate would change our paths when we were men;
But school-days, like all other things, at last must have an end;
I well remember how I grieved to leave my youthful friend;
He wrung my hand at parting, and he whispered in my ear:
Tim " I be far away, old pal, in mem'ry keep me near-ah,
he was a pal of mine, he shared my hopes and fears:
But, oh, for the scenes that fancy brings back from those golden years
When we sat at the same old desk, and together line by line
We studied our lessons, Ned and I, for he was a pal of mine.
Years rolled quickly onward, at last I heard from Ned-
Discouraged by misfortune, downward he was led
Poor lad, he had been drifting upon life's troubled stream,
And o'er his darken'd pathway hope shed not one single beam;
No friendly hand to stay him, he had reached destruction's brink.
Discarded by the world, he sought forgetfulness in drink;
I found him by the road-side there, mocked by the rabbles jeers.
And, us a man should do, I raised my friend of other years-For-Chorus.
Seeds that drink had planted brought the fruit of crime;
I vainly sought to make Ned the lad of olden time;
Too low had he descended, his path was downward now,
Until at last the felons' brand was placed upon his brow:
I saw him in the court-room on the morning he was tried;
Disgraced, a thief, a vagabond, by all the world denied,
"The judge's sentence is declared, " a prison-cell for years,
The only friend to speak for him, I told them thro' my team that-Chorus.
When the shadows deepen, and all nature's still,
I often love to wander to a church-yard on the hill;
In a nook, secluded from the cold world's gaze,
beside a humble grave I muse on half-forgotten days;
No monument of grandeur now marks where he lies at rest.
But God's own pretty flowers lift their heads above his breast;
In peace, poor lad, he slumbers there, his cares and grief's are o'er,
But, ah, what would I give to live again those days of yore, when-Chorus.