American Old Time Song Lyrics: 45 How Nice That All Must Be

Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 45

HOW NICE THAT ALL MUST BE
Copyright, MDCCCXCIV, by Henry J. Wehman.
Words and Music by Harry S. Miller.

When the moon has lit the gloom and stars begin to shine,
Whip-poor-will, from o'er the hill, his evening song does chime,
Then you start, with happy heart, your darling girl to see;
Perhaps she'll wait for you at the gate-how nice that all most be.

Chorus.
You take her arm within your own, down the lane together roam
To love's retreat, and there, alone, beneath some favorite tree,
You tell her she's your turtle-dove, swear to her. by all above,
That she's the only girl you love-how nice that all must be.

'Neath the trees you sit at ease, your darling by your side,
'Round her waist Your arm is placed and silly words are tried.
On your breast her head does rest, of course there's none like she,
You can't resist to steal a kiss-how nice that all must be.

Chorus.
With happy heart your steps retrace-as you gaze into her face
A smile of love you may there trace, a smile that is meant for thee.
But still the stars shine bright above, homeward going with your love.
The old man's waiting with a club-how nice that all must be.

While dad's asleep, the girl you meet some other night as fair,
Down the lane you go again, and love to her declare.
You caress, she answers, "Yes," to questions asked by thee;
At last 'tis said and you're happy made-how nice that all most be.

Chorus.
Then soon the happy day does come, then, of course, you're both made one,
And really glad the thing is done, to that you will both agree.
You start to take her to her home, you know you can't get in your own,
And by her dad the door you're shown-how nice that all must be.

Soon a home get of your own, where you and little wife
Live quite gay as months pass 'way, enjoy the best of life.
Aunts and cousins then come by dozens, stop for dinner and tea;
Don't mind at first, but when it gets worse-how nice that all must be.

Chorus.
Then bills they come in by the score, doctors, bakers' many more;
Instead of rich, you're getting poor, and that you daily do see;
A dozen children, say, you've got, find as you come from your shop,
Your wife has skipped, left you the lot-how nice that all must be.