| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
American Ballads and Folk Songs
Through rain, hail, and snow, froze plumb to the gills— They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.
Oh, I wish the man who started this sell Was a captive, and Crazy Horse had him in hell. There's no use in groaning or swearing like pitch, But the man who would stay here is a son of a bitch.
Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bill
They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills,
JUST FROM DAWSON* (Tune, "Bingen on the Rhine")
A Dawson City mining man lay dying in the ice, He didn't have a woman nurse, he didn't have the price j But a comrade knelt beside him as the sun sank in repose To listen to his dying words and watch him while he froze.
The dying man propped up his head above four rods of snow, And said: "I never saw it thaw at 98 below. Take this little pinhead nugget that I swiped from Jason Dills And send it home to Deadwood, to Deadwood on the hills.
"Tell the fellows in the home land to remain and have a cinch, That the price of patent pork-chops here is 80 cents per inch. And I speak as one that's been here scratching around to find the gold And at 10 per cent of discount now could not buy up a cold.
* From F. A. and Edith H. Brewer.
[ 440 ] |
||