The Roaster On The Walk

Yew kin talk about yewr mewsic thet the no’sy trolley makes,

Yew kin laud the wheezy organ which the dago daily breaks;

Yew kin talk about yewr nightingales, an’ talk, an’ talk an’ talk,

But I love ter hear the whistle of the roaster on the walk.

O, the sweet allurin’ whistle uv the peanut roaster grand;

Where the grim Italian fondly guards his little peanut stand;

It is mewsic pure an’ simple on a lonesome rainy night,

When yew wander up the pavement with us jolly frien’s in sight.

O, I love ter hear it whistle like a buoy out et sea,

An’ it allus steers me safely where I allus like ter be;

An’ I buy a pint uv peanuts an’ I stop ter have a talk

With the man who hez the firin’ uv the roaster on the walk.

When I die I want no Patti fur ter sing a solemn song;

I want no martial mewsic with a muffled drum along.

I kin rest with ease an’ comfort, an’ will never rise ter mock,

Ef yew’ll kiner give a whistle like the roaster on the walk.

Oct. 18, ‘96

Pub. in N.Y. Sunday Herald, Dec. 27, 1897