I’LL TELL you what you wanderers, who drift from town to town;|
Don’t look into a good girl’s eyes, until you’ve settled down.
It’s hard to go away alone and leave old chums behind—
It’s hard to travel steerage when your tastes are more refined—
To reach a place when times are bad, and to be standing there,
No money in your pocket nor a decent rag to wear.
But be forced from that fond clasp, from that last clinging kiss—
By poverty! There is on earth no harder thing than this.