Days Of 49 - Bob Dylan
I'm old Tom Moore from the bummer's shore
in that good old golden days
They call me a bummer and a ginsot too,
but what cares I for praise ?
I wander around from town
to town just like a roving sign
And all the people say, "There goes Tom Moore
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 '49.
My comrades they all loved me well
a jolly saucy crew
A few hard cases I will recall though
they all were brave and true
Whatever the pitch they never 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 '49.
There was New York Jake, the butcher boy
he was always getting tight
And every time that he'd get full
he was spoiling for a fight
But Jake rampaged against a knife
in the hands of old Bob Stein
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 '49.
There was Poker Bill, one of the boys
who was always in a game
Whether he lost or whether he won
to him it was always the same
He would ante up and draw his cards and
he would you go 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 '49.
There was Ragshag Bill from Buffalo
I never will forget
He would roar all day and he'd roar
all night and I guess he's roaring yet
One day 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 '49.
Of the comrades all 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 I pass by from town to town,
they call me a rambling sign
"There goes Tom Moore, a bummer
shore 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 '49.