The Big Brutal City

THE BIG BRUTAL CITY

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(Contents)

THE POOR WORKING GIRL (Music arr. by Leo Sowerby

PAQR

ROLL THE CHARIOT

BRADY  Alfred G. Wathall

ON TO THE MORGUE

IT'S THE SYME THE WHOLE WORLD OVER

IN THE DAYS OP OLD RAMESES. . Alfred G. Wathall .

THE GOOD BOY

WILLY THE WEEPER

COCAINE LIL

SHE PROMISED SHE'D MEET ME

NO MORE BOOZE (FIREMAN SAVE MY CHILD)

LYDIA PINKHAM
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THE POOR WORKING GIRL
This wastrel may be heard from the lips of factory girls in several scattered cities of the Union  of States. Some sing it as if it were true and after the fact, while others rattle it off as if there's  nothing to it but a ditty to pass the time away. Both may be correct,


The poor working girl,
May heaven protect her,
She has such an awfly hard time;
The rich man's daughter goes haughtily by,
My God! do you wonder at crime!

ROLL THE CHARIOT
What would the big brutal city be without that international interdenominational organization, The Salvation Army? It is ready to take any popular song, any ragtime ditty or jazz tune, and tie it up to religion. I have heard converts sing:

"There are flies on you,
There are flies on me,
But there ain't no flies on Jesus."

Reading Bramwell Booth's memoirs, we notice that forty years ago, and more, the Army street  meetings were broken up; singers of gospel hymns were pelted with bad eggs and worse tomatoes.  Time has passed. The Army is respectable now, is established, with million dollar real estate  holdings. When the big bass drum is laid flat and the public invited to throw dimes or dollars onto  the drum, there is no outside interference. They challenge the Devil and worship God in peace.  An old Saturday night favorite in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, and Waterloo, Iowa, is "The Chariot  Song," trumpeted with jubilee "voices as the bass drum invites contributions. I heard it on the  public square, in front of sample rooms and saloons on Prairie Street, in Galesburg, on nights when  "the Q pay car" had come in.

ROLL THE CHARIOT

1 We'll roll, we'll roll the chariot along,
We'll roll, well roll the chariot along,
We'll roll, we'll roll the chariot along,
And we won't drag on behind.

2 If the Devil's in the way we will roll it over him,
If the Devil's in the way we will roll it over him,
If the Devil's in the way we will roll it over him,
And we won't drag on behind.

3 The collection will help us to roll it along,
The collection will help us to roll it along,
The collection will help us to roll it along,
And we won't drag on behind.

BRADY
A Nebraska-born woman, now practicing law in Chicago, gives us one verse and a tune from  St. Louis. It is a tale of wicked people, a bad man so bad that even after death he went "strut tin'  in hell with his Stetson hat." Geraldine Smith, attorney-at-law in Chicago, heard it from Omaha  railroad men. It is text A. Then from the B. W. Gordon collection we have text B. The snarl  of the underworld, the hazards of those street corners and alleys "where any moment may be your  next," are in the brawling of this Brady reminiscence.

A. BRADY

 Down in St. Louis at 12th and Carr
Big Bill Brady was a-tendin' bar;
In came Duncan with a star on his chest
Duncan says "Brady, you're under arrest."

Brady why didn't you run?
Brady you should a-run!
Brady why didn't you run
When you seen Black Duncan with his gatling gun?

B. BRADY

1. Duncan and his brother was playing pool
When Brady came in acting a fool;
He shot him once, he shot him twice,
Saying, "I don't make my living by shooting dice!"

Brady won't come no more!
Brady won't come no more!
Brady won't come no more!
For Duncan shot Brady with a forty-four!

 2 "Brady, Brady, don't you know you done wrong
To come in my house when my game was going on?
I told you half a dozen times before,
And now you lie dead on my barroom floor!"

3 Brady went to hell lookin* mighty curious,
The devil says, "Where you from?" "East St. Louis."
"Well, pull off your coat and step this way,
For I've been expecting you every day!"

4 When the girls heard Brady was dead
They went up home and put on red,
And came down town singin' this song
"Brady's struttin' in hell with his Stetson on!

"Brady, where you at?
Brady, where you at?
Brady, where you at?
Struttin' in hell with his Stetson hat!"

ON TO THE MORGUE
We heard this travesty on the Chopin funeral march sung by two newspapermen, one an Irishman, the other an Icelander, in Atlantic City, during a convention of the American Federation of  Labor.

 1 On to the morgue,
That's the only place for me.
On to the morgue,
That's the only place for me.
Take it from the head one.
He is sure a dead one;
On to the morgue,
That's the only place for me.

Where will we all be
One hundred years from now?
Where will we all be
One hundred years from now?
Pushing up the daisies,
Pushing up the daisies,
That's where we'll all be
One hundred years from now.

 IT'S THE SYME THE WHOLE WORLD OVER
This tale of love's ironic pathways, as sometimes sung by soldiers, sailors, and travelling men,  carries its main character through farther episodes in other cities. It was a favorite in The Black  Watch and among Canadian and Anzac contingents during the World War. The melody comes  here from Paul Boston, John Lock and Bert Massee of Chicago. The text was fortified in part by  H. L. Mencken and a contributor to The American Mercury. 
 

IT'S THE SYME TOR WHOLE WORLD OVER

1. It's the syme the whole world over,
It's the poor what gets the blyme,
While the rich 'as all the plysures.
Now ain't that a blinkin' shyme?

2 She was a parson's daughter,
Pure, unstyn-ed was her fyme,
Till a country squire come courting
And the poor girl lorst her nyme*

3. So she went aw'y to Lunnon,
Just to 'ide her guilty shyme.
There she met an Army Chaplain:
Ornst ag'yn she lorst her nyme.

4 'Ear 'im as he jaws the Tommies,
Warnin' o' the flymes o' 'ell.
With 'er 'ole 'eart she had trusted,
But ag'yn she lorst her nyrne.

5 Now *es in his ridin' britches,
'Untin* foxes in the chyse
Wile the wictim o' his folly
Makes her livin' by her wice.

6 So she settled down in Lunnon,
Sinkin' deeper in her shyme,
Till she met a lybor leader,
And ag'yn she lorst 'er nyme.

7 Now 'es in the 'Ouse o' Commons,
Mykin* laws to put down crime,
Wile the wictim of his ply sure
Walks the street each night in shyine.

8 Then there cyme a bloated bishop.
Marriage was the lyle 'e tole.
There was no one else to tyke 'er,
So she sold 'er soul for gold.

9 See 'er in 'er 'orse and carriage,
Drivin' d'ily through the park.
Though she's myde a wealthy marriage
Still she 'ides a brykin' 'eart.

10 In a cottage down in Sussex
Live's 'er payrents old and lyme,
And they drink the wine she sends them,
But they never, never, speaks 'er nyme.

11 In their poor and 'umble dwellin*
There 'er grievin' payrents live,
Drinkin' champyne as she sends 'em
But they never, never, can forgive.

12 It's the syme the whole world over,
It's the poor what gets the blyme,
While the rich 'as all the plysuref .
Now ayn't it a bloody shyme?

IN THE DAYS OF OLD RAMESES
In the years when Jack the Ripper was baffling the police of London with his murders of women,  leaving mutilated victims in the Whitechapel district, there flourished in Chicago an organization  of newspaper men known as the Whitechapel Club. Its rooms fronted on the alley at the rear of  The Chicago Daily News office, between Fifth Avenue and La Salle Street. George Ade says of  the club, "It was a little group of thirsty intellectuals who were opposed to everything. The fact  that Jack the Ripper was their patron saint will give a dim idea of the hard-boiledness of the organization. They bad kind words and excuses for many of the anarchists who had been hanged for the  bomb-throwing at the Haymarket riot. They were social revolutionists and single-taxers and haters  of the rich. They scoffed at the conventional and orthodox and deplored the cheap futility of their own slave-tasks as contributors to the daily press. They were young men enjoying their first revolt."  Ade, James Keeley, Finley Peter Dunne, Brand Whitlock, John T. McCutcheon, Ben King, Drury  Underwood and others were members. It was about the time of the Chestnut Bell, an attachment  for men's vests; when a story that had been told many times before was narrated, it was the custom  to give a ring or two on the bells, signifying that the hearers had heard the story once or twice. At  the Whitechapel Club, however, instead of ringing Chestnut Bells, they sang a song. The verses,  as given below, are jointly from James Keeley arid George Ade while the melody is a Keeley reminiscence. Ade tells us that Rudyard Kipling remembered his evening at their club because, later on, he tried to recall and write the words of the club song.

IN THE DAYS OF OLD RAMESES

1 In the days of old Rameses, are you on, are you on?
They told the same thing, the very same thing.
In the days of old Rameses, that story had paresis,
Are you on, are you on, are you on?

2. Adam told it to the beast before the fall, are you on?
He told the same thing, the very same thing.
When he told it to the creatures, it possessed redeeming features,
But to tell it now requires a lot of gall.

3 Joshua told it to the boys before the wall, are you on?
He told the same thing, the very same thing
At the wall of Jericho before the wall began to fall,
Are you on, are you on, are you on?

 4 In the days of Sodom and Gomorrah, are you on?
They told the same thing, the very same thing;
In Sodom and Gomorrah, people told it to their sorrow,
Are you on, are you on, are you on?

5 In the days of ancient Florence, are you on?
They told the same thing, the very same thing;
In the days of ancient Florence, it was held in great abhorrence,
Are you on, are you on, are you on?

THE GOOD BOY
Lem Parton, a New York journalist who farms at Sneeden's Landing up the Hudson, gives  the following version of a highbrow folk song which has several variants.

1. I have led a good life, full of peace and quiet,
I shall have an old age full of rum and riot;
I have been a good boy, wed to peace and study,
I shall have an old age, ribald, coarse and bloody.

I have never cut throats, even when I yearned to,
Never sang dirty songs that my fancy turned to;
I have been a nice boy and done what was expected,
I shall be an old bum loved but uurespected.

WILLY THE WEEPER
R. W. Gordon in his editorship of the Adventure magazine department " Old Songs That  Men Have Sung" received thirty versions of Willy the Weeper, about one hundred verses different.  Willy shoots craps with kings, plays poker with presidents, eats nightingale tongues a queen cooks for him; his Monte Carlo winnings come to a million, he lights his pipe with a hundred dollar bill,  he has heart affairs with Cleopatra, the Queen of Sheba, and movie actresses.

As against versions of this heard in Detroit and New York, we prefer the one by Henry (Hinky)  McCarthy of the University of Alabama. He gives it with pauses, with mellowed, mellifluous tones,  with an insinuating guitar accompaniment. The lines "Teet tee dee dee dee dee," are lingering" and dreamy, supposed to indicate regions where the alphabet is not wanted.

WILLY THE WEEPER

1 Did you ever hear the story 'bout Willy the Weeper?
Made his livin' as a chimney-sweeper.
He had the dope habit an* he had it bad;
Listen while I tell you 'bout the dream he had :
Teet tee dee dee dee dee, toot too doo doo doo doo,
Yah dee dah dah, dee dee dee, dee dah dah!

He went down to the dope house one Saturday night,
An' he knew that the lights would be burnin' bright.
I guess he smoked a dozen pills or mo';
When he woke up he wuz on a foreign sho':
Teet tee dee dee dee dee, toot too doo doo doo doo, etc.

3. Queen o' Bulgaria wuz the first he met;
She called him her darlin' an' her lovin' pet.
She promised him a pretty Fohd automobile,
With a diamond headlight an' a silver steerin'-wheel :
Teet tee dee dee dee dee, toot too doo doo doo doo, etc.

4 She had a million cattle, she had a million sheep;
She had a million vessels on the ocean deep;
She had a million dollahs, all in nickles an' dimes;
She knew 'cause she counted them a million times:
Teet tee dee dee dee dee, toot too doo doo doo doo, etc.

5 Willy landed in New York one evenin' late,
He asked his sugar baby for an after-date.
Willy he got funny, she began to shout:
Bim bam boo! an* the dope gave out.
Teet tee dee dee dee dee, toot too doo doo doo doo, etc.

COCAINE LIL
We do not know whether Willy the Weeper and Cocaine Lil were ever introduced to each other.  But they travelled the same route. Illusions, headaches, mornings after, soft fool fantasies, "and  the rest is silence." Lil was one of those who say "I'll try any thing once." As an utterance the  song of Lil has as much validity and more brevity than "The Confessions of an Opium Eater," by  Thomas De Quincey. It is a document that rises from night life places of Chicago and Detroit.  Besides a document it is a song-sketch. "Snow" is slang for a white flaky dust sniffed by drug  addicts. Precisely how and why a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat fight all night with a cocaine rat  is hard to explain. They symbolize a snarl.

Air: Willy the Weeper

1 Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town of Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
They fought all night with the cocaine rat.

2. She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red.
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.

3. Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray,
O the cocaine blues they make me sad,
O the cocaine blues make me feel bad.

4. Lil went to a "snow" party one cold night,
And the way she "sniffed" was sure a fright.
There was Ilophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz with Yen Shee Jim.

5. There was Hasheesh Nell and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they slid;
There was Stepladder Kit, stood six feet,
And The Sleighriding Sisters that are hard to beat.

6. Along in the morning about half-past three
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started to go to bed,
Took another "sniff" and it knocked her dead.

7. They laid her out in her cocaine clothes.
She wore a snowbird hat and a crimson rose;
On her headstone you'll find this refrain:
"She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine."

SHE PROMISED SHE'D MEET ME
It is believed this song originated in Chicago, the premier meat packing city of the round earth,  the continents thereof, and the archipelagoes of the seven seas. However, it is also sung in Omaha,  Cincinnati!, New York and San Francisco, as of local origin. In time seven cities may claim its  author, though it is Aristophanic rather than Homeric in style. The second verse is more vulgar  than the first. Both are sung with gusto at all our best universities. Footballs are made of pigskin. In Cincinnati, once nicknamed Porkopolis, we heard that the song "is best rendered when rendering lard or skinning a beef."

She promised she'd meet me
As the clock struck seventeen,

At the stockyards just nine miles out of town;
Where there's pigs' tails and pigs' ears,
And tough old Texas steers
Sell for sirloin steak at ninety cents a pound.

She's my darlin', my daisy,
She's humpbacked, she's crazy,

She's knock-kneed, bow-legged, and lame
(Spoken: Got the rheumatism!)
They say her breath is sweet,
But I'd rather smell her feet,
She's my freckle-faced, consumptive Mary Jane.

 

NO MORE BOOZE (FIREMAN SAVE MY CHILD)
The phrase "rush the growler" here refers to any receptacle such as a pitcher, a pail, a bucket,  or a tin can, in which draught beer was carried from the bar of a saloon to adjacent premises by  consumers or agents of consumers. . . . About the time this song arose there were mainly three  kinds of saloons in the United States: (1) saloons in bone-dry territory with the doors locked and a  For Sale sign in front; (2) saloons where the doors never closed seven days in the week; (3) saloons  where the doors closed only on Sundays. . . . The period was one provocative of vulgar proverbs,  such as, "The coat arid the pants do all the work but the vest gets all the gravy."

NO MORE BOOZE

1 There was a little man and he had a little can,
And he used to rush the growler;
He went to the saloon on a Sunday afternoon,
And you ought to heard the bartender holler:

Chorus: No more booze, no more booze,
No more booze on Sunday;
No more booze, no more booze,
Got to get your can filled Monday.

She's the only girl I love,
With a face like a horse and buggy.
Leaning up against the lake,
O fireman! save my child!

The chambermaid en me to my door,
"Get up, you lazy sinner,
We need those sheets for table-cloths
And it's almost time for dinner."

Chorus:

LYDIA PINKHAM
Only two of the many verses of this song are presented here. As a satire the piece has its points  and touches more than the surface of current life, manners and morals.

 1 Then we'll sing of Lydia Pinkham,
And her love for the human race;
How she sold her vegetable compound
And the papers published her face.

2 Oh, it sells for a dollar a bottle
Which is very cheap you see,
And if it doesn't cure you
She will sell you six for three.