American Old Time Song Lyrics: 30 Alas For Me

Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 30

ALAS! FOR ME.
From the opera of "Poor Jonathan."

Alas! for me. what shall I do?
They drove me away from Molly,
And out of doors poor me they threw,
With kicks and words unholy.
Oh. woe is me, my heart is broke;
No more they'll let me enter there;
At my distress they only joke;
Ill-luck pursues me everywhere­Ill-luck pursues me everywhere.
Hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu,
hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu- ah, me!
Ah, me! I mourn aloud the fates austere,
My welling grief refuse to hear.
I'm driven from that blest abode
Where I my love had wooed.
So then adieu, thou lovely one;
My sweetest bride, my truest one;
And fare-thee-well dear veal-cutlets
I made With condiments.
Ah, me! no one my sorrow e'er can measure;
Great is my need and small my feed.
Although a cook, I've nothing for my pleasure;
I ne'er shall get relief till dead;
Stern tale would e'en appropriate
What's dearest to my heart;
And force me then, at any rate.
To play the beggar's part-ha!
I am the poor Jonathan
That gets the duce" on every hand;
I've nothing for breakfast nor dinner
That can quiet the keen cravings I suffer;
When one each day quite hungry goes,
Of life at last he weary grows;
Pocket and bottle hold nothing in store,
I will drag thro' this wide world no more.

Many years I've trouble seen,
I've swept the snow-a banker been.
And I've been pulled most every way,
Tormented night and day;
Engaged as clown I too have been
In circus-ring to act. and then
I've blacking made (now us betwixt)
That was with vitriol mixed.
Oh, Lord, I've been in numberless bad fixes.
As man and beast at "sevens and sixes,"
Misfortune's followed me thro' all my turnings,
Ill-luck alone, all that it brings;
Now every sort of scheme I've tried that one might dare,
And yet I have not made myself a millionaire-ha!
I am the poor Jonathan
That get the "duce" on every hand;
I've nothing for breakfast nor dinner
That can quiet the keen cravings I suffer;
When one each day quite hungry goes,
Of life at last he weary grows;
Pocket and bottle hold nothing in store,
I will drag thro' this wild world no more.