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THE DAYS OF FORTY-NINE
W E are gazing now on old Tom Moore, A relic of bygone days; 'Tis a bummer, too, they call me now, But what cares I for praise? It's oft, says I, for the days gone by, It's oft do I repine
For the days of old when we dug out the gold In those days of Forty-Nine.
My comrades they all loved me well,
The jolly, saucy crew;
A few hard cases, I will admit,
Though they were brave and true.
Whatever the pinch, they ne'er would flinch;
They never would fret nor whine,
Like good old bricks they stood the kicks
In the days of Forty-Nine.
There's old " Aunt Jess," that hard old cuss, Who never would repent; He never missed a single meal, Nor never paid a cent. But old " Aunt Jess," like all the rest, At death he did resign, And in his bloom went up the flume In the days of Forty-Nine.