Title used by permission of Will Carleton,
author of "Farm Ballads."
Tenth Edition.
[Cover page:] "Over the Hill to the Poor-House" (1874)
[Title page omitts the "-"]
Song and Chorus.  
Written and Composed Expressly for and Sung 
by 
Mr. James W. McKee, 
Character and Comic Vocalist. 
Words by George L. Catlin. 
Music by David Braham (1838-1905) 

New York : Wm. A. Pond & Co., 547 Broadway 
Branch Store No. 39 Union Square
The Major & Knapp Eng. Mf'g. & Lith. Co., 56 & 58 Park Place 
[Source: 134/049@Levy]

1. What I me! It can’t be that they’re driven 
Their father, so helpless and old, 
(Oh, God, may their crime be forgiven; 
To perish out here in the cold.) 
Oh, Heavens, I am sadden’d and weary, 
See the tears how they course down my cheeks! 
Oh, this worlds it is lonely and dreary, 
And my heart for relief vainly seeks. 

CHORUS [sung after each VERSE]
For I’m ols, and I’m helpless and feeble, 
The days of my youth have gone by; 
Then over the hill to the poor house, 
I wander alone there to die.

2. Ah me! on that old doorstep yonder, 
I’ve sat with my babes on my knee. 
No father, was happier or fonder 
Than I of my little ears three. 
The boys, both so rosy and chubby, 
And Lily with prattle so sweet! 
God knows how their father has loved them, 
But they’ve driven him out in the street.

3. It’s long years my Mary was taken, 
My faithful, affectionate wife; 
Since then I’m forlorn and forsaken, 
And the light has died and of my life; 
The boys grew to manhood; I gave them 
A deed for the farm laye, and more. 
I gave them the house they were born in! 
And now I’m turned out from its door.

4. Oh, children! loved children! yet hear me,
I have journeyed along on life’s stage;
With the hope that you all would be near me,
To comfort and cheer my old age:
My liveblood I’d gladly have given,
To shield and protect you I but hark!
Though my heart breaks, I’ll say it’s you’ve driven
Me out here to die in the dark.

5. But, perhaps, they’ll live happier without me;
Farewell, dear old home, ah! farewell,
Each pathway and tree here about me,
Some memory precious can tell:
Well! the flowers will bloom bright as ever,
And the birds sing as sweet to the morn;
Then ever the hill from the poor house,
Next Spring the old man shall be bourne.