February 2004 Issue Explore Historic California - Magazine for Enthusiasts
 

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Songs of the Old Prospectors

by Cecile Page Vargo

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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