|The One he Sung at Home.|
|The One he Sings Here|
Tune--Irish Emigrant's Lament
|Like Argos of the ancient times,|
I'll leave this modern Greece;
I'm going to California Mines,
To find the golden fleece.
For who would work from morn till night
And live on hog and corn,
When one can pick up there at sight
Enough to buy a farm?
CHORUS: Oh California! that's the land for me,
I'm going to California the gold dust for to see.
There from the snowy mountain's side
I'll take my wash bowl in my hand,
|I'm sitting on a big quartz rock,|
Where the gold is said to grow;
But, I'm thinking of the merry flock,
That I left long ago.
My fare is hard, and so is my bed,
My CLAIM is giving out,
I've worked until I'm almost dead,
And soon I shall "peg" out.
I'm thinking of the better days,
But awful change is this to tell,