 | Songs of two centuries |  |
150
DE TEMPERACHEWER.
I'm an enterprisin' porter
Of the Pennsylvani' Line;
An' I like it, an' I orter,
Fur de business chance is fine;
But in journeys long or shorter,
Dere is somethin' to endure;
An' de worst is, hearin', “Porter,
Can't you change the temperachewer?”
An' I punch de little window,
An' I pull it back an' forth,
For to satisfy the Hindoo,
An' de people of de North.
Of the Pennsylvani' Line;
An' I like it, an' I orter,
Fur de business chance is fine;
But in journeys long or shorter,
Dere is somethin' to endure;
An' de worst is, hearin', “Porter,
Can't you change the temperachewer?”
An' I punch de little window,
An' I pull it back an' forth,
For to satisfy the Hindoo,
An' de people of de North.
Den a Texas Cuhnel want to
Hab me closin' of de hole,
An' a parson from Toronto
Say he's burnin' to a coal;
An' a maiden in a sorter
Alto accent, sof' an' pure,
Chirrups up, an' warbles, “Porter,
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
An' I go an' fix de heater,
Or pretend to, fur a while,
An' her darlin' face is sweeter,
An' she tips me—(wid a smile).
Hab me closin' of de hole,
An' a parson from Toronto
Say he's burnin' to a coal;
An' a maiden in a sorter
Alto accent, sof' an' pure,
Chirrups up, an' warbles, “Porter,
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
An' I go an' fix de heater,
Or pretend to, fur a while,
An' her darlin' face is sweeter,
An' she tips me—(wid a smile).
151
Then a gentleman's on hand, w'ich
Wants to take a Pullman fill,
An' an egg-cup an' a sandwich
Nearly bu'sts a dollar-bill;
An' I think I'll reap a quarter;
But de matter isn't sure,
Fur some fool 'll holler “Porter,
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
An' my man starts like a rocket,
An' he shivers through an' through,
An' dat quarter in his pocket
Sinks forevermore from view.
Wants to take a Pullman fill,
An' an egg-cup an' a sandwich
Nearly bu'sts a dollar-bill;
An' I think I'll reap a quarter;
But de matter isn't sure,
Fur some fool 'll holler “Porter,
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
An' my man starts like a rocket,
An' he shivers through an' through,
An' dat quarter in his pocket
Sinks forevermore from view.
I suppose that some poor feller,
In de various bye-an'-bye,
When de bad folks seek de cellar,
An' de good is in de sky,
Some ol' sinful railroad sporter,
Wid a burn he cannot cure,
Will be hollerin' “Porter! Porter!
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
Dey may press de knob—dose clippers—
But no porter 'll do the rest;
We'll be brushin' golden slippers
In de Pullmans of de blest.
In de various bye-an'-bye,
When de bad folks seek de cellar,
An' de good is in de sky,
Some ol' sinful railroad sporter,
Wid a burn he cannot cure,
Will be hollerin' “Porter! Porter!
Caun't you change the temperachewer?”
Dey may press de knob—dose clippers—
But no porter 'll do the rest;
We'll be brushin' golden slippers
In de Pullmans of de blest.
| Songs of two centuries | |