Days of 49
Bob Dylan/Self Portrait
| Am | G | Am | G | Am |
I'm | old Tom Moore from the | bummer's shore in the | good old | golden | days. |
| G | Am | G | Am |
They call me a bummer and a | gin-sot, too, but | what cares | I for | praise |
| C | Am | C | Am |
I | wander 'round from | town to town, just | like a roving | sign, |
| C | Am | G | Am |
And | the people all say "There | goes Tom Moore in the | days of ' | 49. |
| Am | F | C | F | C |
| In the | days of old, in the | days of gold, how | oftentimes I re | pine |
| F | C | Am |
For the | days of old when we | dug up the gold, In the | days of '49. |
There was Nantuck Bill, I knew him well, a feller fond of tricks. | |
At a poker game he was always there and heavy with his bricks. | |
He would ante up and draw his cards and go in a hatfull blind. | |
In a game of bluff, Bill lost his breath in the days of '49. | |
There was New York Jake, a butcher boy he was always getting tight. | |
And every time that he got full he was always hunting a fight. | |
One night he run up against a knife in the hands of old Bob Kline: | |
And over Jake they held a wake In the days of '49. | |
There was poor old Jess, the old lame cuss; He never would relent. | |
He never was known to miss a drink Or ever spend a cent. | |
At length old Jess, like all the rest, who never would decline, | |
In all his bloom went up the flume in the days of '49. | |
There was roaring Bill from Buffalo; I never will forget. | |
He would roar all day and he'd roar all night and I guess he's roaring yet. | |
One night he fell in a prospector's hole in a roaring bad design, | |
And in that hole roared out his soul in the days of '49 | |
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