A low-down lament from 1929.
Words by Jack Yellen.
Music by Milton Ager.
Sheet music provided by Laurence Rubenstein:
Accompaniment by James Pitt-Payne:
Lyrics
Lucinda Brown, look here
What the ‘ccasion for that tear?
A bride of just about a year
Shouldn’t look that way
What? Your man is chasing ’round?
Why, that good-for-nothing hound
That is too bad, I’ll be bound
But listen what I’ve got to say
Chorus
Let him ramble, let him roam
He’ll ramble ’round the town until he rambles home
Some day he’ll be knockin’ on your door
(Please, mama, let me in)
Let him exit, beat it! scram
He’ll go out like a lion, come back like a lamb
Tamer than he ever was before
(You ought to smack his chin)
You’ve heard of little Bo-Peep
How she lost her sheep
And didn’t know where to find them
Of course, you know it’s a fac’
That they all come back
A-waggin’ their tails behind them
So, don’t you worry, frown or fret
Be patient, gal, and use your dome
Let him ramble, let him roam
Your papa’s bound to ramble home
(Drunk or sober)
Your papa’s bound to ramble home
Chorus
Let him ramble, let him roam
He’ll ramble ’round the town until he rambles home
Some day he’ll be knockin’ on your door
(Please, mama, let me in)
Let him exit, beat it! scram
He’ll go out like a lion, come back like a lamb
Tamer than he ever was before
(You ought to smack his chin)
You’ve heard of ramble and roam
But don’t you sit home
With your eyes on the clock on the shelf
Go out and get a marcelle
Fix up nice and swell
And have a good time yourself
Just show your papa you don’t care
Use your charmes, but also use your dome
Let him ramble, let him roam
Your papa’s bound to ramble home
(Sooner or later)
Your papa’s bound to ramble home
Patter
There ain’t a married man alive who’s really satisfied
Altho his body may be home his thoughts are all outside
He’ll give you long, hot kisses, close his eyes and hug you tight
But all the time he’s thinkin’ ’bout a gal he met last night
And when you catch him cheatin’, oh of course, it is a shame
Don’t run for your divorce, the next man’s bound to be the same
Just let him chase that hot stuff till he’s weary in the legs
When he’s all fed up on chile he’ll want mama’s ham and eggs
You cannot keep the moth away from fire burnin’ bright
You cannot keep your old Tom-cat from prowlin’ ’round at night
A little boy is bound to have one more piece of dessert
And when he’s grown up he will feel the same about a skirt
They’ll ramble till there forty, fifty, sixty, often more
But let me tell you somethin’ I don’t want you to get sore
When you’re sure your man has no other woman in his head
Just call the undertaker in, because that man is dead
Sung here by Fred Feild: