THE SAME OLD TUNE. j
Copyright, 1891, by Frank Harding.
Words by John F. Birch. Music by Wm. Cronin.
I'll sing you a song of a little Irishman,
But he isn't a policeman now;
He was the happiest looking man that ever walked a beat,
And as graceful as a pretty county cow.
He had bunions on his feet and corns upon his nose,
And a face like P. T. Barnum's baboon;
You'd split your sides a-laughing just to see his flannel mouth
When he'd whistle this same old tune.-(Whistle.)
His name was Michael Murphy, and from County Clare,
In that darling little isle across the sea;
He didn't know enough to come in when it rained.
And he couldn't tell his coffee from tea.
He'd walk along the heat in his suit of blue so neat.
And as happy as the little birds in June;
His eye he'd never wink to a bartender for a drink
But he'd whistle the same old tune.-(Whistle.)
He wrote himself a letter just to see how he could spell,
And he waited for an answer day And night.
And because he didn't get it sure his Irish blood got hot,
And he roamed about looking for a fight.
He met Dempsey, Jack, the fighter who was smoking a segar,
And he couldn't get at him too soon;
He got a hard punch in the leg, which spoiled his handsome mug-
This is how he whistled that tune.-(Whistle.)
He whistled in the morning and he whistled in the night
And he whistled the whole day long.
He whistled Annie Rooney and McGinty by the yard,
For he couldn't sing any song.
One day he took a walk with himself to have a talk.
Sure his breath left him at the stroke of noon;
When they laid him on the bed, says he. boys, although I'm dead,
Still I'll whistle the same old tune.- (Whistle.)