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I'm old Tom Moore from the bummer's shore in that good old golden days |
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They call me a bummer and a ginsot too, but what cares I for praise ? |
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I wander around from town to town just like a roving sign |
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And all the people say, "There goes Tom Moore, in the days of '49" |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
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My comrades they all loved me well, a jolly saucy crew |
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A few hard cases I will recall though they all were brave and true |
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Whatever the pitch they never would flinch, they never would fret or whine |
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Like good old bricks they stood the kicks in the days of '49 |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
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There was New York Jake, the butcher boy, he was always getting tight |
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And every time that he'd get full he was spoiling for a fight |
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But Jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of old Bob Stein |
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And over Jake they held a wake in the days of '49 |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
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There was Poker Bill, one of the boys who was always in a game |
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Whether he lost or whether he won, to him it was always the same |
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He would ante up and draw his cards and he would you go a hatful blind |
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In the game with death Bill lost his breath, in the days of '49 |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
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There was Ragshag Bill from Buffalo, I never will forget |
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He would roar all day and he'd roar all night and I guess he's roaring yet |
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One day he fell in a prospect hole, in a roaring bad design |
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And in that hole he roared out his soul, in the days of '49 |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
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Of the comrades all that I've had, there's none that's left to boast |
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And I'm left alone in my misery like some poor wandering ghost |
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And I pass by from town to town, they call me a rambling sign |
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"There goes Tom Moore, a bummer shore in the days of '49 " |
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In the days of old, in the days of gold |
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How oft'times I repine for the days of old |
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When we dug up the gold, in the days of '49. |
