Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads. Various

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      THE DAYS OF FORTY-NINE

      We are gazing now on old Tom Moore,

       A relic of bygone days;

       'Tis a bummer, too, they call me now,

       But what cares 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 the gold

       In those days of Forty-Nine.

      My comrades they all loved me well,

       The jolly, saucy crew;

       A few hard cases, I will admit,

       Though they were brave and true.

       Whatever the pinch, they ne'er 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 he did resign,

       And in his bloom 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 is roaring yet.

       One night Jim fell in a prospect hole—

       It was a roaring bad design—

       And in that hole Jim roared out his soul

       In the days of Forty-Nine.

      There is Wylie Bill, the funny man,

       Who was full of funny tricks,

       And when he was in a poker game

       He was always hard as bricks.

       He would ante you a stud, he would play you a draw,

       He'd go you a hatful blind—

       In a struggle with death Bill lost his breath

       In the days of Forty-Nine.

      There was New York Jake, the butcher boy,

       Who was fond of getting tight.

       And every time he got on a spree

       He was spoiling for a fight.

       One night Jake rampaged against a knife

       In the hands of old Bob Sine,

       And over Jake they held a wake

       In the days of Forty-Nine.

      There was Monte Pete, I'll ne'er 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 lay Pete out,

       It was his last resign,

       And it caught Pete dead sure 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 am 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 and the days of gold

       And the days of Forty-Nine.

      Days of Forty-Nine

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