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Alice

Was in a bar, a dingy dive,
That Alice worked – just twenty five,
A bar girl, by grief driven mad.
A Yankee sailor, handsome lad,
She’d tell me was her absent beau:
“The ships are in – I want you go
And find him – bring him here to me.”
Each time this was her tearful plea.
And humour her, each time I would,
For in her heart the girl was good.

“He come – I know he will!” she’d cry.
“Alice, I’ve looked – not yet.” I’d lie.
Her son they’d taken from her breast;
Mad Alice never more would rest
Until she saw his father’s face.
At closing time she’d leave the place
And make her way through midnight’s gloom
Back to her wretched rented room,
And at her shrine, prayer candles burn;
And wait for her love’s safe return.