“Yes, I’m Guilty.”“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.“Guilty of all the crimes you name;But this yere lad is not to blame.’Twas I alone who raised the row,And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.You see, this boy is pale and slim;We calls him saint.—His name is Tim.—He’s like a preacher in his ways:—He never drinks, or swears, or plays,But kinder sighs and weeps all day;’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.Why, sir, many and many a night,When grub was scarce and I was tight,No food, no fire, no light to see,When home was hell, if hell there be,I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,And pray such words as cut like steel;Which somehow warmed and lit the room,And sorter chased away the gloom.Smile if you must, but facts are facts,And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;And though I’m black as sin can beHis prayers have done a heap for me,And make me think that God, perhaps,Sent him on earth to save us chaps.This man what squealed and pulled us in,He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scampsConnive and plot with thieves and tramps.Well, Tim and me, we didn’t knowJust what to do or where to go,And so we stayed with him last night.And this is how we had the fight:They wanted Tim to take a drink,But he refused, as you may think,And told them how the flowing bowlContained the fire that kills the soul.‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.Let preachers groan and prate of sin,But give to us the flowing gin!’Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,And offered up this little prayer:‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,As down his cheeks the big tears ran,‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,And make me strong, and good, and true.I’ve done my best to do what’s right,But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.Father, mother, oh, plead for me—Tell Christ I long with you to be!’‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’The landlord yelled with rage and fear,Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,Which made my blood just b’iling mad.I guess I must uv hurt his head,For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.Shot at the front, where bursting shellAnd cannon sang their song of hell,And muskets hissed with fiery breath,As brave men fell to their tune of death.I promised his father before he died,As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,That I’d protect his darling boy.I simply did what his father would,And helped the weak, as all men should.Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,And used him rough I’ll not deny;But think of it, Judge, a chap like himStriking the likes of little Tim.If I did wrong, send me below,But spare the son of comrade Joe.—You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”—J. M. Munyon.
“Yes, I’m Guilty.”“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.“Guilty of all the crimes you name;But this yere lad is not to blame.’Twas I alone who raised the row,And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.You see, this boy is pale and slim;We calls him saint.—His name is Tim.—He’s like a preacher in his ways:—He never drinks, or swears, or plays,But kinder sighs and weeps all day;’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.Why, sir, many and many a night,When grub was scarce and I was tight,No food, no fire, no light to see,When home was hell, if hell there be,I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,And pray such words as cut like steel;Which somehow warmed and lit the room,And sorter chased away the gloom.Smile if you must, but facts are facts,And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;And though I’m black as sin can beHis prayers have done a heap for me,And make me think that God, perhaps,Sent him on earth to save us chaps.This man what squealed and pulled us in,He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scampsConnive and plot with thieves and tramps.Well, Tim and me, we didn’t knowJust what to do or where to go,And so we stayed with him last night.And this is how we had the fight:They wanted Tim to take a drink,But he refused, as you may think,And told them how the flowing bowlContained the fire that kills the soul.‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.Let preachers groan and prate of sin,But give to us the flowing gin!’Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,And offered up this little prayer:‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,As down his cheeks the big tears ran,‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,And make me strong, and good, and true.I’ve done my best to do what’s right,But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.Father, mother, oh, plead for me—Tell Christ I long with you to be!’‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’The landlord yelled with rage and fear,Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,Which made my blood just b’iling mad.I guess I must uv hurt his head,For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.Shot at the front, where bursting shellAnd cannon sang their song of hell,And muskets hissed with fiery breath,As brave men fell to their tune of death.I promised his father before he died,As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,That I’d protect his darling boy.I simply did what his father would,And helped the weak, as all men should.Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,And used him rough I’ll not deny;But think of it, Judge, a chap like himStriking the likes of little Tim.If I did wrong, send me below,But spare the son of comrade Joe.—You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”—J. M. Munyon.
“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.“Guilty of all the crimes you name;But this yere lad is not to blame.’Twas I alone who raised the row,And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.You see, this boy is pale and slim;We calls him saint.—His name is Tim.—He’s like a preacher in his ways:—He never drinks, or swears, or plays,But kinder sighs and weeps all day;’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.Why, sir, many and many a night,When grub was scarce and I was tight,No food, no fire, no light to see,When home was hell, if hell there be,I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,And pray such words as cut like steel;Which somehow warmed and lit the room,And sorter chased away the gloom.Smile if you must, but facts are facts,And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;And though I’m black as sin can beHis prayers have done a heap for me,And make me think that God, perhaps,Sent him on earth to save us chaps.This man what squealed and pulled us in,He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scampsConnive and plot with thieves and tramps.Well, Tim and me, we didn’t knowJust what to do or where to go,And so we stayed with him last night.And this is how we had the fight:They wanted Tim to take a drink,But he refused, as you may think,And told them how the flowing bowlContained the fire that kills the soul.‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.Let preachers groan and prate of sin,But give to us the flowing gin!’Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,And offered up this little prayer:‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,As down his cheeks the big tears ran,‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,And make me strong, and good, and true.I’ve done my best to do what’s right,But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.Father, mother, oh, plead for me—Tell Christ I long with you to be!’‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’The landlord yelled with rage and fear,Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,Which made my blood just b’iling mad.I guess I must uv hurt his head,For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.Shot at the front, where bursting shellAnd cannon sang their song of hell,And muskets hissed with fiery breath,As brave men fell to their tune of death.I promised his father before he died,As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,That I’d protect his darling boy.I simply did what his father would,And helped the weak, as all men should.Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,And used him rough I’ll not deny;But think of it, Judge, a chap like himStriking the likes of little Tim.If I did wrong, send me below,But spare the son of comrade Joe.—You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”—J. M. Munyon.
“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.“Guilty of all the crimes you name;But this yere lad is not to blame.’Twas I alone who raised the row,And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.You see, this boy is pale and slim;We calls him saint.—His name is Tim.—He’s like a preacher in his ways:—He never drinks, or swears, or plays,But kinder sighs and weeps all day;’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.Why, sir, many and many a night,When grub was scarce and I was tight,No food, no fire, no light to see,When home was hell, if hell there be,I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,And pray such words as cut like steel;Which somehow warmed and lit the room,And sorter chased away the gloom.Smile if you must, but facts are facts,And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;And though I’m black as sin can beHis prayers have done a heap for me,And make me think that God, perhaps,Sent him on earth to save us chaps.This man what squealed and pulled us in,He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scampsConnive and plot with thieves and tramps.Well, Tim and me, we didn’t knowJust what to do or where to go,And so we stayed with him last night.And this is how we had the fight:They wanted Tim to take a drink,But he refused, as you may think,And told them how the flowing bowlContained the fire that kills the soul.‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.Let preachers groan and prate of sin,But give to us the flowing gin!’Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,And offered up this little prayer:‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,As down his cheeks the big tears ran,‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,And make me strong, and good, and true.I’ve done my best to do what’s right,But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.Father, mother, oh, plead for me—Tell Christ I long with you to be!’‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’The landlord yelled with rage and fear,Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,Which made my blood just b’iling mad.I guess I must uv hurt his head,For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.Shot at the front, where bursting shellAnd cannon sang their song of hell,And muskets hissed with fiery breath,As brave men fell to their tune of death.I promised his father before he died,As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,That I’d protect his darling boy.I simply did what his father would,And helped the weak, as all men should.Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,And used him rough I’ll not deny;But think of it, Judge, a chap like himStriking the likes of little Tim.If I did wrong, send me below,But spare the son of comrade Joe.—You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”—J. M. Munyon.
“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,
As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.
“Guilty of all the crimes you name;
But this yere lad is not to blame.
’Twas I alone who raised the row,
And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.
You see, this boy is pale and slim;
We calls him saint.—His name is Tim.—
He’s like a preacher in his ways:—
He never drinks, or swears, or plays,
But kinder sighs and weeps all day;
’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.
Why, sir, many and many a night,
When grub was scarce and I was tight,
No food, no fire, no light to see,
When home was hell, if hell there be,
I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,
And pray such words as cut like steel;
Which somehow warmed and lit the room,
And sorter chased away the gloom.
Smile if you must, but facts are facts,
And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;
And though I’m black as sin can be
His prayers have done a heap for me,
And make me think that God, perhaps,
Sent him on earth to save us chaps.
This man what squealed and pulled us in,
He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,
Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scamps
Connive and plot with thieves and tramps.
Well, Tim and me, we didn’t know
Just what to do or where to go,
And so we stayed with him last night.
And this is how we had the fight:
They wanted Tim to take a drink,
But he refused, as you may think,
And told them how the flowing bowl
Contained the fire that kills the soul.
‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;
’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.
Let preachers groan and prate of sin,
But give to us the flowing gin!’
Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,
And offered up this little prayer:
‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,
As down his cheeks the big tears ran,
‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,
And make me strong, and good, and true.
I’ve done my best to do what’s right,
But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.
Father, mother, oh, plead for me—
Tell Christ I long with you to be!’
‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’
The landlord yelled with rage and fear,
Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,
Which made my blood just b’iling mad.
I guess I must uv hurt his head,
For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.
No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:
His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.
Shot at the front, where bursting shell
And cannon sang their song of hell,
And muskets hissed with fiery breath,
As brave men fell to their tune of death.
I promised his father before he died,
As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,
I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,
That I’d protect his darling boy.
I simply did what his father would,
And helped the weak, as all men should.
Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,
And used him rough I’ll not deny;
But think of it, Judge, a chap like him
Striking the likes of little Tim.
If I did wrong, send me below,
But spare the son of comrade Joe.—
You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!
A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”
—J. M. Munyon.