Days of '49 - Without Overdubs, Self Portrait

I'm ol' Tom Moore from the bummers shore in the good old golden days
 They call me a bummer and a ginsot too but what cares I for praise
 I wander around from town to town just like a rovin' sign
 And all the people say, "There goes Tom Moore in the days of 49"
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 How often times I repine
 For the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 In the days of 49
 My comrades, they all loved me well, a jolly, saucy crew
 A few hard cases I will recall though they all were brave and true
 Whatever the pitch they never would flinch
 They never would fret or whine
 Like good old bricks, they stood the kicks in the days of 49
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 How ofttimes I repine
 For the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 In the days of 49
 There was New York Jake, the butcher's boy
 He was always getting tight
 And every time that he'd get full, he was spoiling for a fight
 Then Jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of ol' Bob Stein
 And over Jake they held a wake in the days of 49
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 How often times I repine
 For the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 In the days of 49
 There was Poker Bill, one of the boys who was always in a game
 Whether he lost or whether he won, to him it was always the same
 He would ante up and draw his cards and he would you go a hatful blind
 In a game with death, Bill lost his breath, in the days of 49
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 In the day's times I repine
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 Those were days of 49
 There was ragshag Bill from Buffalo, I never will forget
 He would roar all day and he'd roar all night and I guess he's roarin' yet
 One day he fell in a prospect hole in a roaring bad design
 And in that hole he roared out his soul in the days of 49
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 How ofttimes I repine
 For the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 In the days of 49
 Of the comrades all that I've had, there's none that's left to boast
 And I'm left alone in my misery like some ol' poor wandering ghost
 And I pass by from town to town, they call me 'The Rambling Sign'
 There goes Tom Moore, a bummer sure in the days of 49
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 How often times I repine
 For the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 In the days of 49
 In the days of old, when we dug up the gold
 How ofttimes I repine
 In the days of old, in the days of gold
 In the days of 49, oh