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
Comes down the golden sand,
And spreads a carpet far and wide
O'er all the shining land.
The rivers run on golden beds,
O'er rocks of golden ore,
The valleys six feet deep are said
To hold a plenty more
Oh California! &c

. I'll take my wash bowl in my hand,
And thither wind my way,
To wash the gold from out the sand
In Cal-i-for-nee-aye.
And when I get my pocket full
In that bright land of gold,
I'll have a rich and happy time:
Live merry till I'm old
Oh California! etc.

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,
Before I left my home;
Before my brain with gold was crazed,
And I began to roam.
Those were the days, no more are seen
When all the girls loved me;
When I did dress in linen clean
They washed and cooked for me.

But awful change is this to tell,
I wash and cook myself;
I never more shall cut a swell,
But here must dig for pelf.
I ne'er shall lie in clean white sheets,
But in my blankets roll;
An oh! the girls I thought so sweet,
They think me but a fool.