| Lyrics: | The Dreary Black Hills
Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale,
An object of
pity, l'm looking quite stale,
I gave up my trade selling Wright's Patent Pills
To go
hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills.
Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For big Wallipe or Comanche Bill
They will lift up your hairr on the dreary Black Hil
The roundhouse at Cheyenne is
filled every night
With loafers and bummers of most every plight;
On their backs is no
clothes, in their pockets no bills,
Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black
Hills.
I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find,
I thought of the lunch route
l'd left far behind;
Through rain, hail, and snow, froze plumb to the gills,
They call me
the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.
Oh, I wish the man who started this sell
Was a
captive, and Crazy Horse had him in hell.
There's no use in groaning or swearing like
pitch,
But the man who would stay here is a son of a bitch.
Kind friend to conclude
my advice I'll unfold
Don't go to the Black Hills a hunter for gold
Railroad speculators
their pockets you'll fill
By taking a trip to the dreary Black Hills
Don't go
away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bill
They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black
Hills.
From Lomax, Cowboy Songs
@mine @gold @home
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