Days of '49
A Song of the Mining Days of 1849
You are gazing now on old Tom Moore,
A relic of bygone days; 'Tis a bummer too they call me now, But what care I for praise? It's oft, says I, for the days gone by, It's oft do I repine, For the days of old when we dug out gold In the days of Forty-Nine. My comrades they all loved me well, That jolly, saucy crew; A few hard cases, I will admit, But they were brave and true. Whatever the pinch, they never would flinch; They never would fret nor whine, Like good old bricks they stood the kicks In the days of Forty-Nine. There's old “Aunt Jess,” that hard old cuss, Who never would repent; He never missed a single meal, Nor never paid a cent. But old “Aunt Jess,” like all the rest, At death did he resign, And in his bloom he went up the flume In the days of Forty-Nine. |
There is Ragshag Jim, the roaring man,
Who could out-roar a buffalo, you bet; He roared all day and he roared all night, And I guess he's roaring yet. One night Jim fell in a prospect hole, It was a roaring bad design, For in that hole Jim roared out his soul In the days of Forty-Nine. There was Monte Pete, I'll never forget The luck he always had; He would deal for you, both day and night, Or as long as he had a scad. It was a pistol shot that laid Pete out; It was his last resign; And it caught Pete shore, right in the door, In the days of Forty-Nine. Of all the comrades that I've had, There's none that's left to boast; And I'm left alone in my misery, Like some poor wandering ghost. And as I pass from town to town, They call me the rambling sign, Since the days of old when we dug out gold In the days of Forty-Nine. |