BYRONTOWN
(from the singing of Jerry Hanley via the singing of Jared MacLean)
(collected by Louise Manny)
(Doerflinger - 'Songs of the Sailor and Lumberman' - pp260-262)

Oh, in By-ron-town of high re-nown,
That's where I do be-long,
And to speak my mind on wo-men-kind,
Now, I've com-posed a song.
And I hope with me you'll all a-gree,
Mind, what I say is true,
And young la-dies gay I will be-tray,
And give them all their due.

Now the first of all, there's big and small,
As you may understand;
The tall and slim, the thick and thin,
All in our glorious land.
The black and white, they lace up tieght
Our young men to beguile.
There's the young and ould, the hot and cold,
There's every shade and style.

Now, these girls you'll meet upon the street,
the seem so blithe and gay,
With a form and face that would disgrace
The blooming flowers in May.
And a ruby lip some nice young slip
They seem so gay and shy;
And they'll kindly speak and look so meek
Saying; I'm Mother's pride and joy.

Now, such thoughts as these, they do me please,
And set my heart on fire.
To be some man's wife, yes, all through life,
It is their whole desire.
But love has blinded all mankind,
From the days of Adam down,
so that's the way in the State of Maine,
Likewise in Byrontown.

Oh, it's now you know, to a dance they'll go,
Next day they can scarcely crawl,
And if our young men could see them then,
In love they'd never fall.
Like a lousy pup, they're all used up,
Their sex they do degrade;
They should lead their life as no man's wife,
But die a poor old maid.

They rise at nine, or dinner time
To get their morning meal.
Oh, Mother dear, I feel so queer.
You don't know how I feel!
My head does ache, it will surelye break;
My back it pains again.
I wished last night I was in my grave,
And the grass growing over me green!

But they'll marry a man, that's if they can,
And to keeping house they'll go.
They'll pile on style, yes, all the while,
Let the wages be high or low.
A loaf or cake they cannot bake;
You would laugh to see their pies,
They'd declare the flour was old and sour,
And the dough it would not rise.

It's an organ grand you must pursue,
All for your lady bright,
And a sewing machine to hem and seam
To keep her hands so white.
And a great big hat, sure she'll sport that,
No matter what you say,
And a brand new shawl she'll have next fall,
When you your debts can't pay.