A Popular Song of Pioneer Times in California

Here you see old Tom Moore, A relic of by-gone days
A bummer, too, they call me now, But what care I for praise?
For my heart is filled with woe, And I often grieve and pine,
For the days of old, the days of gold, the days of forty-nine.
For the days of old, the days of gold, the days of forty-nine.

I had comrades then, a saucy set, They were rough, I must confess,
But staunch and brave, as true as steel, Like hunters from the west;
But they, like many other fish, Have now run out their line;
But like good old bricks, they stood the kicks, Of the days of forty-nine.

There was Monte Pete, I’ll ne’er forget, The luck that he always had.
He’d deal for you both night and day, Or as long as you had a scad.
One night a pistol laid him out, ‘Twas his last lay out in fine,
It caught Pete sure, right bang in the door, In the days of ‘49.

There was another chap from New Orleans, Big Reuben was his name,
On the plaza there with a sardine box, He opened a faro game.
He dealt so fair, that a millionaire, He became in course of time,
‘Till death stept in and called the turn, In the days of ‘49.

There was Kentuck Bill, one of the boys, Who was always in for a game,
No matter whether he lost or won, To him ‘twas all the same.
He’d ante a slug, he’d pass the buck, He’d go a hat full blind.
In a game of death, Bill lost his breath, In the days of ‘49.

There was New York Jake, the butcher boy, So fond of getting tight,
Whenever Jake got full of gin, He was looking for a fight.
One night he run, against a knife, In the hands of old Bob Kline,
And over Jake, we had a wake, In the days of ‘49.

There was North Carolina Jess, a hard old case, Who never would repent.
Jess was never known to miss a meal, Or ever pay a cent.
But poor old Jess, like all the rest, To death did at last resign,
And in his bloom, he went up the flume, In the days of ‘49.

There was Rackensack Jim who could out roar, A buffalo bull you bet,
He roared all night, he roared all day, He may be roaring yet.
One night he fell in a prospect hole, ‘Twas a roaring bad design,
And in that hole, Jim roared out his soul, In the days of ‘49.

Of all the comrades I had then, There’s none left now but me,
And the only thing I’m fitting for, Is a Senator to be,
The people cry as I pass by, “There goes a traveling sign,
That’s old Tom Moore, a bummer sure, Of the days of ‘49.”