And hadn'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 hadn'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 ain't many like mine! And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn'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 won't quite so much o'er me prevail, As 'twould be to some one who wasn't brought up in a kind of a jail!