American Old Time Song Lyrics: 34 I Wonder What His Face Looked Like

Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 34

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Copyright, 1887, by Sydney Rosenfeld.
Published by Willis Woodward & Co.
By Sydney Rosenfeld.

The proper study of mankind, the poet says, is man,
And I pursue that study where and whensoe'er I can,
The human face alone, in its variety of looks.
Can give you more expressions than a closet full of books.
Some chap, for instance, bets his all upon a game or race.
Convinced 'twill prove a winner in his individual case;
The game is played, the race is run, he's gambled but to lose;
I wonder what his face looks like,
I wonder what his face looks like when first he hears the news.

Young Percival de Windemere woos Miss Atlanta Thorn;
The woman who'd refuse his hand, he thinks, has not been born,
For is he not the polished nob, the nobbiest of nobs,
For whom all swelldom feminine, with yearning passion throbs;
But Miss Atlanta one fine morn elopes with plain Bill Smith,
And Percival's allurements have turned out to be a myth!
Dumb with dismay, he says no word t'express his views,
But I wonder what his face looks like,
t wonder what his face looks like when first he hears the news.

My married friend young Robinson one fine morn, in accents glad,
Tells me, in strictest confidence, he's going to be a dad;
And all that day his pleasant thoughts are in a giddy whirl,
A-guessing if it's going to be a little boy or girl.
And home he trots, prepared to chuck the chubbiest of chins,
When nurse informs him softly that his son and heir is twins;
Is this a joy? is this a pain? his lips all speech refuse-
I wonder what his face looks like,
I wonder what his face looked like when first he heard the news.

It is a sad reflection that we're made of such base stuff;
One-half the world forever tries the other half to bluff.
My uncle learned draw-poker, and, rejoicing in his fate,
he bet his little boodle on a paralytic straight;
He would have raked the ducats, in a state of gleeful gush,
If t'other bluffer hadn't backed his own bow-legged flush;
My uncle says he didn't care, well maybe he did not.
But I wonder what his face looked like,
I wonder what his face looked like when he gave up the pot

How often, oh, how often in this vale of woe and sin.
Have I bewailed the havoc of the stray banana skin,
So guileless in appearance, yet so deadly in its deals,
You utterly miscalculate the action of your heels.
The very proudest men on earth have dropped and not asked why;
Their toes in wild ambition have soared upwards to the sky-
Yes, you've been there I and said no word, and only watched your feet,
But I wonder what your face looked like,
I wonder what your face looked like when first you took your seat.

The man who first made razors ought to've met a felon's doom,
Yet barbers, in this shaving age, are needed, I presume;
Have you not felt at times, when you were seated in the chair,
As though the barber took delight in toying with each hair;
The little notches in his blade a-crawling through your cheek,
Until your very jaw-bone seemed to shrivel and to creak?
And when you've paid the demon, who has grabb'd your coin and grinn'd-
You wonder what your face looks like,
You wonder what your face looks like, believing that it's skinned.
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