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Show PORE OLD DAD (Author Unknown.) Ye kin scarce pick up a paper, And its poet's corner greet, Cept ye'll boo er pirty poem 'Bout the Mother, saintly sweet. But you'll have a timo a searchin' Eyes will be nchin bad, E're you'll ever find a poem At this time for pore old Dad. No, it isn't wilful in 'cm, Them that write of Mother dear; That there's never notice taken Of her old man sfttin' near. No, it's never meant to slight him, But it looks n little sad, All the bouquets made for Mother, Not a bloom for pore old Dad. True, our Mother watched above us 'Till her dear old eyes would ache; But old Dad he humped to feed us 'Till his back would nearly break. Mother crooned above tho cradle, Gave devotion, all she had; tStill there wasn't any circuit At this time far pore old Dad. Now don't take one line from Mother, When you write the Soul's sweet song; But if there's a word for Father, Now and then it won't bo wrong. Poor old soul, he's bent nnd wrinkled, And I know 'twould-mako him glad If, while you're praisin' Mother, Something's said for pore old Dad. |