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A Son of a Gambolier
by Charles Ives
Come join my humble ditty,
From Tippery town I steer,
Like ev’ry honest fellow,
I take my lager beer,
Like ev’ry honest fellow,
I take my whiskey clear.
I’m a rambling rake of poverty,
And a son of a Gambolier.
I wish I had a barrel of rum,
And sugar three hundred pound,
The college bell to mix it in,
The clapper to stir it round;
I’d drink the health of dear old Yale,
And friends both far and near.
I’m a rambling rake of poverty,
And a son of a Gambolier.