Whether
in the saloons or out prospecting, the miners loved a good song.
This one was popular amongst the dry-gulchers:
There’s a Good Pile Coming, Boys
There’s
a good pile coming, boys,
A
good pile coming. Tho’
you sink full many a hole,
Ere
the sigh delights your soul,
Of
the good pile coming;
Let
the hope still urge you on,
And
make your blows the stronger,
You’re
nearer to it every stroke,
Dig
a little longer!
Chorus:
There’s a good pile coming, boys,
A
good pile coming.
There’s
a good pile coming, boys
A
good pile coming:
Pick
and shovel, pan and crow
Rightly
used, ‘twill quickly show
The
good pile coming;
Work
with industry and skill,
Your
chance will be the stronger.
You’ll
come upon it soon or late,
Dig
a little longer!
There’s
a good pile coming, boys,
A
good pile coming--
But
beware of cards and dice, They will clear you in a trice,
of
the good pile coming;
But
if you use it as should,
‘Twill
make your credit stronger.
Then
work away with good intent,
Dig
a little longer!
This
was one of the most popular songs of the mining camps and was probably
heard often at Nugent’s saloon, perhaps with Mexican Nell and her
girls singing with them:
The
Days of Forty-Nine
Now
here you see poor Old Tom Moore,
A
relic of by-gone days,
They
call me a terrible gin-head now,
But
what care I for praise?
My
heart is full of the good old times,
And
often I repine
For
the days of old, the days of gold-
The
days of Forty-nine.
I
had comrades, then, a bully crew,
Who’d
never fume or fret
They’d
whiskey drink ‘till all was blue,
And
the tiger fight, you bet,
They’d
take the rough along with the smooth, and never groan or whine,
But
like good old bricks, they stood the kicks,
In
the days of Fory-nine
There
was poor old Jones, a hard old case,
As
never did repent;
He
was never known to miss a meal,
Or
ever put up a cent
But
poor old Jess, like all the rest,
To
death he did resign;
And
in his bloom went up the flume,
In
the days of Forty-nine.
There
was Poker Bill, one of the boys,
Who
was always in for a game,
And
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 hateful blind’
In
a game with death, Bill lost his breath
In
the days of Forty-Nine.
There
was Whiskey Jake, always in for a fight,
Whenever
he got tight;
And
it made no difference to Whiskey Jake
Whether
he was wrong or right,
But
one night he ran against a knife
In
the hands of Old Bob Kline
And
over Jake, they held a wake,
In
the days of Forty-nine.
There
was buffalo Bill, would roar like a bull,
I
never shall forget;
He’d
roar all day and he’d roar all night,
And
I guess he’s roaring yet.
One
night he fell in a prospect hole,
“Twas
a roaring bad design,
For
in the hole he roared out his soul,
In
the days of Forty-Nine.
Of
all the comrades I had then,
Each
one of them is lost;
I’m
left alone in my misery
Like
some poor wandering ghost.
The
folks all say that I’m a fraud
And
call me a traveling sign,
Saying
there goes Tom Moore, a bummer, sure,
Of
the days of Forty-nine.
And
now a long and last farewell
To
the friends so true and tried;
Adieu
to Jess and Poker Bill, And to Whiskey Jake, beside.
A
bumper well filled to Buffalo Bill,
And
a cheer to old Bob Kline,
“Tis
the last, I’m sure of poor tom
Moore
,
And
the days of Forty-nine.
Thanks
to Desert
Bonanza by Marcia Rittenhouse Wynn
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