Copyright, 1894, by H. W. Petrie.
Words by Harry C. Clyde. Music by H. W. Petrie.
I shall lead you, in my fancy,
Not where rank and riches awe,
But to a home where want holds fearful sway,
To an humble little cottage,
Where upon a bed of straw,
The little hero's sickly mother lay.
He had kissed her dear white forehead,
He had softly paid "good bye,"
And bravely started out the "News" to sell;
Just a lad of scarce eleven,
With a manly, honest eye,
But his young heart a world of care could tell.
Poor little Tim, dark days for him, no happy times like other boys see:
Poor little Tim, hope looked so dim, but golden summer's dawn was soon to be,
Then in mingling with the people
On the busy, crowded street,
He saw a package to the sidewalk drop;
By the owner 'twas unnoticed,
And lay there at his feet,
Bright greenbacks showing thro' the broken top;
Then there rose before Tim's vision
A poor mother's starving face,
A struggle 'twixt the right and wrong began;
But next moment be was Speeding
At an honest, eager pace,
And handed back those greenbacks to the man -Chorus.
When the banker took his bundle,
He at Tim looked with surprise,
And said. "My boy, pray tell to me your name;
I've a sister roaming somewhere,
Who once had your very eyes,
For years to find her. lad, has been my aim."
Then he followed poor Tim homeward,
And there dawned a happy day.
He found the sister he had mourned so long;
And tho' once in time of anger
He had driven her away,
Bright years for both have since wiped out the wrong.- Cho.