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(bt Bant of my tift What is it like some old fog-horn, Disturbs my rest at early morn, And makes me wish I ne'er was born, But Jimmie's old guitar? What is it haunts my waking hours, Like fiendish shrieks of demon powers, And my sweet disposition sours, But Jimmie's old guitar? What is it when I take my book, And seek some quiet peaceful nook, Keeps wailing like some lonely spook, But Jimmie's old guitar? What is it when I want to sleep Makes all my nerves and neurones creep Until I cuss away down Jeep, But Jimmie's old guitar? What is it when I say my prayers And would forget my daily cares, Keeps sawing off the same old airs, But Jimmie's old guitar? What shall I do to break the spell, And all my wretchedness dispel? I I'll send that nuisance straight to-well, I'll smash that old guitar! HIS OLD WOMAN. 139