The Story of Gilbert Hendry

by George Albert Leddy

I once knew a guy, his name it was Gilbert;

A nuttier nut, than the one they call Filbert.

When he was young, something gave him the notion;

He’d fall into wealth, if he’d sail o’er the ocean.

So he boarded a streamer, one very fine morning;

And bid a farewell, to the land he was born in.

Now, he may have been dumb, but there’re many that’s dumber;

For he worked a free passage, by aiding the plumber.

But he got here at last, and it sure was a pity;

The shape he was in, when he reached New York City.

Why, even the statue, that guarded the bay;

Just stood there and wondered; had nothing to say.

So, he started along, down the street he was hiking;

He didn’t go far, ‘twas not to his liking.

He wandered along, ‘til his belly was sagging;

And some other part, we won’t mention, was dragging.

And as nighttime drew near, he was ready to faint;

When he met with a feller—a ‘seller-of-paint.’

When the feller saw Gil, and the shape he was in:

So desperately weak, so pale, and so thin;

His heart, it was touched, as ‘twould be for a brother.

So he took the lad home, to his kind-hearted Mother.

“O’woorah!” she cried, as she paused in her baking;

“I’ll tend to the lad—if you’re sure he’s not faking!”

“Acushla!” she cried, as she clasped the weak hand

(You see, she’s a daughter of Old Ireland);

“Tho’, your Forefathers tr’ated us, jest loike a pig,

Shure, I cenna do such, fer me heart is too big.”

So she made him a bed that was soft, warm and cozy;

To the down-hearted lad, things began to look rosy.

But the sun, o’er the hilltop, too soon, began peeping;

Then he slipped out of bed, he was tired of sleeping.

So he crept down the stairs, and just got to the door;

And there was the good woman, sweeping the floor.

“God forgive!” cried she, “‘Tis me be a sinner;

Should I let the lad lave me, without a foine dinner!”

So she filled up his stomach, with bacon and eggs;

Put new life in his carcass, and strength in his legs.

So he went on his way; he was blissful and happy,

As a gold-digger baby, who’s found a new Pappy.

But that seller-of-paints, he has never forgotten;

Tho’ times might be good, or times might be rotten;

Through times, when ‘twas hard, to meet his expense,

But a seller-of-paints—he has been ever since.

Now, the Grand Duke of Windsor, he came to our land;

We greeted and cheered him, with flag and with band.

We showed him, the honor, that’s due to a king,

But I’m here to tell you—it don’t mean a thing.

But when Gilbert came over, as I understand:

There weren’t no flags—no, not even a band;

Not even a Jew’s harp, nor fiddle, nor drum.

I guess he was sorry, at first, that he’d come.

Then he got him a job, and he felt mighty fine:

Sold wallpaper and paint, and that was his line;

Sandpaper and brushes, and varnish and glue;

And sometimes, he’d give away, color-cards, too.

And now,, he is happy, not a bit does he care;

That when he came over, no music was there.

For music’s no more, than a ghost, or a spook;

And we have our Gilbert—to Hell with the Duke!

*****