Copyright, 1892, by T. B. Harms & Co.
Words and Music by B. H. Janssen.
A little lad who cries his ware of papers on the street
Met death not very long ago as few men death would meet;
A car that came the other way struck him while passing by-
A whirr of brakes, alas! too late, a moan-then plaintive cry;
They got him from beneath the wheels and carried him aside;
His little face so ghastly white, not even dirt could hide,
And to the doctor then he turned, "Say, Doc., does mother know
Just kinder spring it light on her if I ain't got a show!"
Every pain was forgotten in that one sweet thought of home,
Bravely love held the starting tear-drops back;
Only care for the dear ones, in the shadow of death;
Greater men have not lived than little Jack.
He lay there on a pillow and at last his mother came.
"It's all my fault, my mother; don't you give the driver blame;
I s'pose the 'doc' has told you that my chance looks pretty black,
But then, you know, I always said, 'they can't kill little Jack';
The money's in my pocket; 'tain't so much, but you know why;
You'll need it; now don't worry, for I hate to see you cry;
I was always good and honest," and Jack Gorman said no more;
A mother's only hope was dead, a hero's life was o'er.- Chorus.