I'd rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff — up near to the end of the car...

I'd rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff — up near to the end of the car;

We wo n't do so much advertising if we stay in the seat where we are.

That sweet little dude saw the bracelets that you on my wrists have bestowed,

And tells the new passengers promptly you're “taking me over the road.”

I've had a well-patronized trial — the neighbors all know of my fall;

But when I get out among strangers I'm sensitive-like, after all.

For I was a lad of good prospects, some three or four summers ago —

There was n't any boy in our township who made a more promising show!

I learned all of Solomon's proverbs, and took in their goodness and worth,

Till I felt like a virtue-hooped barrel, chock-full of the salt of the earth.

And this precious picnic of sorrow would likely enough have been saved,

If I had had less of a heart, sir, or home had contained what it craved.

For the time when a boy is in danger of walking a little bit wild,

Is when he's too young to be married — too old to be known as a child;

A bird in the lonely grass thickets, just out of the parent tree thrown,

Too large to be kept in the old nest — too small to have one of his own;

When, desolate‘ mid his companions, his soul is a stake to be won;

‘ Tis then that the Devil stands ready to get a good chance to catch on!

Oh, yes! I'd a good enough home, sir, so far as the house was concerned;

My parents were first-class providers — I ate full as much as I earned.

My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen;

There was n't any lock on the pantry — my bedroom was tidy and clean;

And taking the home up and down, sir, I'd more than an average part,

With one quite important exception — there was n't any room for my heart.

The house could n't have been any colder, with snow-drifts in every room!

The house need n't have been any darker to make a respectable tomb!

I used to stop short on the door-step, and brace up a minute or more,

And bid a good-bye to the sunshine, before I would open the door;

I used to feed daily on icebergs — take in all the freeze I could hold —

Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so cold!

And had n't I a father and mother? Oh yes! just as good as they make —

Too good, I have often suspected ( though maybe that last's a mistake ).

But they'd travelled so long and so steady the way to Perfection's abode,

They had n't any feeling for fellows who could not as yet find the road;

And so, till some far advanced mile-post on goodness's pike I could win,

They thought of me, not as their own child, but as one of the children of sin.

And had n't I brothers and sisters? Oh yes! till they somewhat had grown;

Then, shivering, they went off and left me to stand the cold weather alone.

For I had the luck to be youngest — the last on the family page,

The one to prop up the old roof-tree — the staff of my parents’ old age;

Who well understood all the uses to which a mere staff is applied;

They used me whenever convenient — then carelessly threw me aside!

And had n't I any associates? Oh yes! I had friends, more or less,

But seldom I asked them to visit our house with the slightest success;

Whenever the project was mentioned, they'd somehow look blue like and chill,

And mention another engagement they felt it their duty to fill;

For — now I am only a convict, there's no harm in telling the truth —

My home was a fearful wet blanket to blood that was seasoned with youth!

Not one blessed thing that was cheerful; no festivals, frolics, or games;

No novels of any description —‘ twas wicked to mention their names!

My story-books suddenly vanished, my checker-boards never would keep,

No newspaper came through our doorway unless it was first put to sleep!

And as for love — well, that old song, sir, is very melodious and fine,

With “No place like home” in the chorus — I hope there ai n't many like mine!

And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul could n't abide,

And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side;

And when I start out on a journey, I'm likely to go it by leaps,

For good or for bad, I'm no half-way — I'm one or the other for keeps.

My wild oats flew thicker and faster — I reaped the same crop that I sowed,

And now I am going to market — I'm taking it over the road!

Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray,

They deeply regretted my downfall — in a strictly respectable way;

They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice,

And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise.

Indeed I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smarts,

I must have been left on the door-step of their uncongenial hearts!

My home in the prison is waiting — it opens up clear to my sight;

Hard work and no pay-day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night.

And there I must lie sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest,

And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my breast;

But maybe the strain and the trouble wo n't quite so much o'er me prevail,

As‘ twould be to some one who was n't brought up in a kind of a jail!

You've got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cosy and nice,

And‘ tis n't for a wrist-shackled convict to offer you words of advice;

But this I must say, of all places your children may visit or call,

Make HOME the most pleasant and happy — the sweetest and best of them all;

For the Devil wo n't offer a dollar to have his world-chances improved,

When Home is turned into a side-show, with half the attractions removed!

Do n't think I'm too bitter, good sheriff — I like you: you've been very good;

I'm ever and ever so grateful — would pay it all back if I could.

I did n't mean to slander my parents — I've nothing against their good name,

And as for my unrighteous actions, it's mostly myself that's to blame;

Still, if I'd had a home — But the prison is only one station ahead —

I'm done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but do n't forget what I have said!