Chorus
Rosemarie, de bells are ringin',
O, how sweet dat melodie!
Rosemarie! de robins' singin'
An' it's always callin' me!
THE DERELICT
(When Seattle Was Wide Open.)
——————
I will write a short sketch
Of that free hearted wretch
Whom all fakirs delight to espy.
He is seen every day
Just below Yesler Way,
Either "full" or distressingly "dry".
He alights from the train,
Or a boat from the main,
With intentions both honest and clear.
But the weak-minded wight,
Led astray before night,
Is filled full of doped whiskey and beer.
How alluring and bright
Is each glittering light,
As he joyfully watches the throng;
And his spirits are gay
As a bird's are in May,
And as gayly conducive to song.
How seductive the speech
In which sirens beseech
Him to share the delights of their spree.
Ev'ry man in the set
Is "hail fellow well met",
And each woman delightfully free!
There's a wink from the "traps",
And a meal with the Japs,
And a shuffle of cards as they go.
There's a trip to the play,
A few "smiles" by the way,
And a box by themselves at the show.
O how slyly they wink
As they sip at their drink,
And maliciously help him to his;
And he drinks it, alas!
'Though the foam on the glass
Floats around with a death-dealing fizz.
Thus the night passes by
Till the victimized "guy"
Is sufficiently "doped" to "go through";
And the stupefied lout,
When he's finally out,
Will possess but a nickel or two.
Wholly drunk, and half blind,
With confusion of mind,
And to rum-selling vultures a prey,
He is found at the "Mug"—
Takes a ride to the jug,
And there slumbers his potions away.
Coming out the next morn,
Sober, sick and forlorn,
To a world that has quickly grown cold!
A poor outcast he roams
While in sumptuous homes
Whilom friends(?) are enjoying his gold.
Where is now the glib friend
Of his bounty to lend
The poor devil the price of a plate?
He has vanished like mist
Of the morning, sun-kissed—
And the victim is left to his fate.
Not a wink from a lass,
Nor a clink from a glass,
With "your health", as it's borne to the lips;
Not a sign from a trap,
Not a bite from a Jap—
All his sunshine has suffered eclipse!
Not a kindly "invite"
From the friends of the night,
To "step in and have something on me."
Not a drop from the fakes
Just to steady the shakes,
And to "knock" the effects of the spree.
As he wanders the street
Not one friend does he meet,
Not a soul that will greet him today;
"Broke" and hungry—alone,
With a heartrending moan,
He must totter along to the bay.
O, the groans which now surge
With the tones of a dirge
From that soul so late given to song,
And how scenes long since fled
Like a wail from the dead,
Rise to hasten his footsteps along.
Yea, dim memories rush
To his mind, and a flush
Of deep shame drives all pallor away,
As he thinks of the East
And the home he has lost
By the life that leads on to the bay.
"Robbed and wronged all around,"
Is the sob of the sound,
But no mortal comes forward to save;
So with mutterings of wrath
He goes down to his death
Through the green, clammy depths of the waves.
Hark the tones of despair
Which arise on the air
From the shades of the low moaning bay;
They will float through the years
And encircle the spheres,
And be heard at the great Judgment Day.
Soon a poor, bloated form,
Tossed about by the storm,
Floating 'round on the crest of each wave,
With seaweed for a shroud,
Is beheld by the crowd,
And a failure is borne to his grave.
'Tis a jump from the train
And a trip up on [A]Main,
And a sip with a friend (?) on the way.
Just a step to the "Mug",
And a ride to the "jug"—
Then a leap to his death in the bay.
But the Lord from his seat
Looketh down on each street,
Where such hell-born inventions are on,
And with infinite wrath
He will sweep on their path—
And they'll reap on that day what they've sown.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Main Street, Seattle.