Jim Cope: Music

• MP3 short clip, hi-fi play (broadband)

DAYS OF FORTY NINE
Traditional; Copyright by Lomax Collection

I'm old Tom Moore from the bummer's shore of the good old golden days.
They call me a bummer and a gin sot, too But what care 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 '49.

My comrades they all loved me well, a jolly saucy crew
Of a few hard cases I will tell, though all were brave and true
Whatever the pinch, they’d never flinch, They’d never fret or whine
Like good old bricks, they stood their kicks In the days of ‘49

cho: In the days of old, in the days of gold How oft-times I re-pine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold In the days of '49.

There was Poker Bill, I knew him well, who was always in for a game.
Whether he lost or whether he won, To Bill it was all the same.
He would ante up and draw his cards, And go you a hatfull blind
In a game with death, Bill lost his breath In the days of '49.

cho: In the days of old, in the days of gold How oft -times I re-pine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold In the days of '49.

There was New York Jake, a butcher boy, He was always getting tight.
And every time that he got full, He’d be spoiling for a fight.
then Jake rampaged against a knife In the hands of old Bob Kline
And over Jake we held a wake In the days of '49.

cho: In the days of old, in the days of gold How oft-times I re-pine
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 night he fell in a prospect's hole of a roaring bad design,
And in that hole roared out his soul In the days of '49

cho: In the days of old, in the days of gold How oft-times I re-pine
For the days of old when we dug up the gold In the days of '49.

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 ramblin’ sign
There goes Tom Moore, from the bummer’s shore, of the days of ‘49