I'm old Tom Moore
from the bummer's shore,
the good old golden days.
They call me a bummer and a ginsot too,
but what cares I for praise?
I've rambled round all over town,
just like a roving sign,
and the people all say
there goes Tom Moore
in the days of 49.
My comrades they all loved me well,
that jolly saucy crew.
A few hard cases I will admit,
but they were brave and true.
Whatever the pinch,
they ne 'er would flinch,
they never would fretner whine.
Like good old bricks
they stood the kicks
in the days of 49.
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,
he went up the flume
in the days of 49.
There was New York Jake,
the butcher boy,
who was fond of getting tight.
And every time he got on a spree,
he was spoiling for a fight.
One night, Jake jumped against a knife
in the hands of old Doc Sign,
and over Jake we held awake
in the days of 49.
Of all the comrades that I've
had
there's none that's left to boast
an d I'm alone in my misery
like some poor wan dering ghost
an d as I pass from town to town
They call me the rambling sign
Since the days of old
When we dug out the gold
In the days of 49