I'm old tom Moore from the bummer's shore, In the good old golden days.
They call me a bummer and a gin-sot, too.But what cares I for praise?
I wander around from town to town Just like a roving sign
And the people all say "There goes Tom Moore Of the days of forty-nine"
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.
My comrades, they all loved me well, A 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 or whine.
Like good old bricks, they stood the kicks In the days of '49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.
There was old Lame Jess, a hard old cuss, Who never did repent;
He never was known to miss a drink Or ever spend a cent;
But old Lame Jess, like all the rest, To death he did resign
And in his bloom went up the flumeIn the days of '49.
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.
There was Poker Bill, one of the boys, Who was always in for a game,
Whether he lost or whether he won, To him it was all the same;
He would ante up and draw his card It would go you a hatful blind,
In the game with death Bill lost his breath In the days of '49.
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.
There was New York Jake, the butcher's boy, He was always getting tight;
And every time that he'd get full He was spoiling for a fight;
Then Jake rampaged against a knife In the hands of old Bob Sine (Warner's say Kline)
And over Jake they held a wake In the days of '49.
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.
There was Ragshag Bill from Buffalo I never will forget,
He would roar all day and roar all night And I guess he's roaring yet;
One night he fell in a prospect hole In a roaring bad design;
And in that hole he roared out his soul In the days of '49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
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--
"There goes Tom Moore, a bummer sure, Of the days of '49."
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How oft-times I repine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold
In the days of forty-nine.