Nostalgic Songs of the Westward Movement

SWEET BETSY FROM PIKE

Oh don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who crossed the big mountains with her lover Ike,
With two yoke of oxen, a big yellow dog,
A tall Shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog?

Cborus: Singing dang fol dee dido,
Singing dang fol dee day.

One evening quite early they camped on the Platte.
'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat,
Where Betsy, sore-footed, lay down to repose--
With wonder Ike gazed on that Pike County rose.

The Shanghai ran off, and their cattle all died;
That morning the last piece of bacon was fried;
Poor Ike was discouraged and Betsy got mad,
The dog drooped his tail and looked wondrously sad.

They stopped at Salt Lake to inquire of the way,
Where Brigham declared that sweet Betsy should stay;
But Betsy got frightened and ran like a deer,
While Brigham stood pawing the ground like a steer.

They soon reached the desert where Betsy gave out,
And down in the sand she lay rolling about;
While Ike, half distracted, looked on with surprise,
Saying, "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."

Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain,
Declared she'd go back to Pike County again;
But Ike gave a sigh, and they fondly embraced,
And they traveled along with his arm round her waist.

The Injuns came down in a wild yelling horde,
And Betsy was scared they would scalp her adored;
Behind the front wagon wheel Betsy did crawl,
And there fought the Injuns with musket and ball.

They suddenly stopped on a very high hill, With wonder looked down upon old Placerville; Ike sighed when he said, and he cast his eyes down, Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."

Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance; Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants; Sweet Betsy was dressed up in ribbons and rings; Says Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"

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ACRES OF CLAMS

I've wandered all over this country,
Prospecting and digging for gold;
I've tunneled, hydraulicked, and cradled,
And I have been frequently sold.

And I have been frequently sold,
And I have been frequently sold.
I've tunneled, hydraulicked, and cradled,
And I have been frequently sold!

For one who got rich by mining,
I saw there were hundreds grew poor;
I made up my mind to try farming,
The only pursuit that is sure.

I rolled up my grub in my blanket,
I left all my tools on the ground,
I started one morning to shank it
For the country they call Puget Sound.

No longer the slave of ambition,
I laugh at the world and its shams,
And think of my happy condition,
Surrounded by acres of clams.

Surrounded by acres of clams,
Surrounded by acres of clams.
And think of my happy condition,
Surrounded by acres of clams!

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JOE BOWERS

My name it is Joe Bowers, and I've got a brother Ike;
I'm just here from old Missouri, and all the way from Pike;
I tell you why I left there and why I began to roam,
And left my aged parents, so far away from home.

I used to court a girl there, her name was Sally Black,
I asked her if she'd marry me, she said it was a whack;
She says to me, "Joe Bowers, before we've hitched for life,
You ought to get a little home to keep your little wife."

Says I, "My dearest Sally, oh. Sally, for your sake,
I'll go to California and try to raise a stake."
Says she to me, "Joe Bowers. you're just the one to win.
She gave me a kiss to seal the bargain and throwed a dozen in.

I'll never forget my feelings when I bid adieu to all.
Sal she cotched me around the neck. and I began to bawl.
When I began they all commenced. you never heard the like,
How they took on and cried the day I left old Pike.

When I got to this country, I had nary a red;
I had such wolfish feelings, I wished myself most dead.
But the thoughts of my dear Sally soon made this feeling git
And whispered hopes to Bowers, Lord, I wish I had 'em yet.

At last I went to mining, put in my biggest licks,
Came down upon the boulders just like a thousand bricks;
I worked both late and early, in rain, in sun and snow,
I was working for my Sally, 'twas all the same to Joe.

One day I got a letter from my dear brother Ike,
It came from old Missouri, all the way from Pike.
It brought me the darndest news that ever you did hear,
My heart it is a?breaking, so please excuse this tear.

It said my Sal was false to me, that her love for me had fled,
That she had got married to a butcher whose hair was red;
It told me more than that--it's enough to make me swear--
That Sal had had a baby and the baby had red hair.

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" Days of Forty?Nine"

The Forty-niners loved to sing. They sang as they worked, they sang as they sat around their campfires in the soft California night, they sang when they came into San Francisco to spend, often in one wild night or week of nights, the gold they bad so laboriously dug out of the ground. "Days of Forty-Nine" is a good example of their songs; it probably does not exaggerate the hardships and the roughness of life in California during the Gold Rush, and it reflects the insouciant attitude of the gold diggers toward the "refinements'' of civilization. It was probably written, if formally written at all, some years after 1849, but it belongs here as a memorial of those exciting days when San Francisco was new.

DAYS OF FORTY-NINE

You are gazing now on old Tom Moore,
A relic of bygone days;
'Tis a bummer too they call me now,
But what care 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 gold,
In the days of Forty-Nine.

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 never 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 less," like all the rest,
At death did he resign,
And in his bloom he went up the flume
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There is Ragshag Jim, the roaring man,
Who could out?roar a buffalo, you bet;
He roared all day and he roared all night,
And I guess he's roaring yet.
One night Jim fell in a prospect hole,
It was a roaring bad design,
For in that hole Jim roared out his soul
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There was Monte Pete, I'll never forget
The luck he always had
He would deal for you, both day and night,
Or as long as he had a scad.
It was a pistol shot that laid Pete out;
It was his last resign;
And it caught Pete shore, right in the door,
In the days of Forty-Nine.

Of all the comrades that I've had,
There's none that's left to boast;
And I'm left alone in my misery,
Like some poor wandering ghost.
And as I pass from town to town,
They call me the rambling sign;
Since the days of old when we dug out gold
In the days of Forty-Nine