farewell glance at the home of the most cultured American that has graced the court of Saint James.
BUB KARABOO.
Say, I'm lonesome, awful lonesome now,
Since my chum, goiod chum Bub is gone.
There's no more rompin' in the mow,
An', no more playin' 'cept by me alone.
I wisht you'd tell me: tell me do,
Where's my chum, good chum Bub Karaboo.
Oh! I an' Bub did have sich times,
In the ode smimmin' hole 'neath the maple tree,
Where the white-tailed yaller-hammer sung his chimes,
An' sweet htoneysucklea were sipped by the bee.
Such friends, good friends you bet are few,
As was me an' my chum, Bub Karaboo.
In the ole milk-house where the spring bubbled up,
An' the weepin' wilier switches hung down low,
We'd slip in easy, the sweet cream sup,
Then pocket some cheese an' out we'd go.
But say, whore's Bub? You know, don't you,
My chum, good chum, Bub Karaboo?
We drove the milch cows up the lane,
When the sun went down behind the hill.
We gathered the eggs for sister Jane,
