Tonart: D major
Verse 1
D
E
Em
D
I'm old -time, more of the bummer, sure,
E
in the good old golden days
They call me a bummer and a ginsight,
D
too,
but what do I care for praise?
Em
D
I wander around from town to town
Em
just like a ram blin' sign
D
E
D
The people all say there goes time,
A
Em
D
more of the days of forty -nine
Em
D
My comrades, they all love me well,
Em
there's a jolly saucy crew
D
E
D
A few hard cases I will admit,
but they was brave and true
Whatever the pinch,
Em
D
they never would flinch,
E
and they never would fret or whine
D
Em
Like good old bricks,
Em
There's old lame Jess,
F#
E
Em
and he never did repent
D
Em
He never was known to miss a drink
But old Lame,
Em
F#
just like all the rest of death,
E
Em
he did n't resign
D
Em
D
And in his bloom, he went up to floom
Em
E
in the days of 49
Em
A poker bill of one of the boys,
he was always in for a game
D
Em
But whether he won or whether he lost,
D
to him it was all the same
F#
E
Em
He'd ante up and he'd
E
F#
draw his cards,
E
D
he'd go you a hatful blind
Em
In a game of death, Bill lost his breath
E
A
in the days of forty -nine
Em
D
In the days of old, in the days of gold,
Em
how oft times I repined
D
A
E
For the days of old
Em
A
when we dug up the gold
Em
in the days of forty -nine
E
Out in New York, Jake the butcher's boy,
D
Em
he was always getting tight
E
Em
And every time that he'd get full,
D
he was looking for a fight
Em
D
And Jake rampaged against the knife
E
Em
in the hand of an old Bob Siney
D
Yes, and over Jake we held a wick
A
Em
D
A
in the days of 49
Em
The ragshack bill of Buffalo
B
Em
I never will forget
D
Em
B
He'd roar all day, he'd roar all night,
F#
I guess he's roaring yet
D
Em
One night he fell in a prospect hole
E
Em
in a roaring bat design
D
Em
And in that hole,
he roared out his soul
Em
B
Of all the comrades that I've had,
Em
now there's none that's left to boast
D
Em
I'm left alone in my misery,
D
like some poor wandering ghost
Em
E
Em
D
And as I pass from town to town,
F#m
Em
they call me the ramblin' sign
D
Em
There goes Tom Moore,
that bummer, sure,
in the days of gold,
B
Em
How oft times I repined,
D
Em
For the days of old,
when we dug up to gold,
In the days of forty -nine, oh yeah.
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