The Dying Mother

Don't send my boy to Harvard
The dying mother said;
Don't send him on to Illinois
I'd rather he were dead.
Just send him on to Michigan,
I'm sure he'd do quite well;
But rather than Chicago
I would see my boy in Hell.

He rambled, he rambled
Our line will never bend
While he rambles round the end.
He rambled, he rambled,
He rambled till he touched the leather down.
And when we reach Chcicago,
We will buy a keg of booze,
And we'll drink to Michigan
Until we wobble in our shoes.

From the The Camp Davis Song Book, 1924, pg 44.