Читать книгу Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads - Various - Страница 5

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.