Rhymes From The Silver State

-old and unacceptable lyrics

© 2014 CW BAYER © 2014 CW BAYER nevadamusic.com Search: “nevadamusic” on Facebook, http://nevadamusic.ecwid.com for hard copy purchase.

About CW BAYER For decades, CW has played music all over Nevada and along the Eastern Slope. Email for info. Perfect for wakes, foreclosures, bankruptcies and the better saloons. See songs, books and calendar at nevadamusic.com

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! !2 Introduction ...... 5 ARRIVAL OF THE GREENHORN, 1854 ...... 6 BOUND FOR THE LAND OF WASHOE, 1863 ...... 8 BALDY GREEN, 1865 ...... 9 EXCELSIOR, 1866 ...... 11 THE ARTFUL JERKER, 1868 ...... 13 THE COLLOQUY OF THE OLD TIMERS, c.1868 ...... 14 THE DAYS OF '49, 1868 ...... 25 LITTLE BREECHES, 1870 ...... 27 THE WASHOE CANARY, 1871 ...... 29 FIRE IN THE TUNNEL, 1872 ...... 31 ARE YOU A HOOD-A-LUM, 1872 ...... 33 OSCEOLA, 1877 ...... 34 CHICKEN TOMALES, 1879 ...... 36 THE PRINCESS WEIMAR, 1879 ...... 38 SILVER JACK’S RELIGION, c.1885 ...... 42 THE MINER’S SOLILOQUY, 1888 ...... 43 THE BOLD BUCCAROO, 1889 ...... 45 OUT OF CARSON, 1892 ...... 46 LAKE TAHOE GIVES NOT UP HER DEAD, 1894 ...... 47 THE MIRACULOUS BULL, 1894 ...... 48 COUSIN JACK, c.1895 ...... 54 SOUTHERN KLONDIKE, 1900 ...... 55 THE FELLER I WAS SORRY FOR, 1901 ...... 57 THE HIGHGRADER, c.1905 ...... 59 THE MINING ENGINEER’S SONG, 1909 ...... 60 CASEY JONES, 1911 ...... 61 THE GIRL OF THE SAGEBRUSH STATE, 1914 ...... 62 THE LAST TRIP, 1917 ...... 63 Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !3 THE CALL OF THE AMBULANCE, 1917 ...... 65 THE DESERT RAT, 1919 ...... 66 SONG OF THE DEATH VALLEY PROSPECTORS, 1919 ...... 67 HARD ROCK DANN, 1925 ...... 69 BACKIN JIM, 1927 ...... 71 WAGON TRAMPS ON THE CARSON SINK, 1927 ...... 73 US OLD BOYS ON BOULDER DAM, 1931 ...... 74 HOME MEANS NEVADA, 1932 ...... 76 IN MEMORIUM TO WHISKEY PETE, 1934 ...... 77

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! !4 Introduction

Look elsewhere to find rhymes about the purple mountains. These lyrics were written at at time when anti-boss griping and American tribalism defined many miners and ranchers across Nevada, defining the language and humor of those men. One might long for that lost time or lament its origins in a deep rooted violence. It is what it is, and it should be remembered. For the most part, this literature has been lost. And, those days have been replaced by cartoon cowboys sporting tacky Hollywood dialog while more serious types spout homilies to the pioneer spirit. Guard small children from this book. If you are looking for some vindication of power, don’t bother with it. Please accept my apologies in advance for failing to edit out the overt and brutally self- serving racism that sometimes crops up. This is history--hopefully that portion behind us. If you understand that this is a rare look at a much romanticized but forgotten culture, you may also be interested in my book, “The Strychnine Banjo, Charley Rhoades, Jake Wallace and The Days of ’49.” That book traces two men and a song that span much of this same ground.

CW Bayer Carson City, Nevada nevadamusic.com

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! !5 ARRIVAL OF THE GREENHORN, 1854 John Stone, California Written in the Sierra Nevada about passage across Nevada, this lyric of overland travel set the lyric style that, with the rush to Washoe, has long amused the desert rat and appalled the civilized. The mock heroic form originated in San Francisco during the early 1850s, coming direct from London saloon theater. It got its wings with minstrel show banjoists who traveled the diggings and, later, into Virginia City. It carried over into early cowboy poetry.

I’ve just got in across the Plains, I’m poorer than a snail, My mules all died, but poor old Clip, I pulled in by the tail; I fed him last at Chimney Rock, that’s where the grass gave out, I’m proud to tell, we stood it well, along the Truckee route. But’ I’m very weak and lean, though I started plump and fat, How I wish I had the gold machine, I left back on the Platte! And a pair of striped bed tick pants, my Sally made for me, To wear while digging after gold and when I left says she, “Here take the laudanum with you Sam, to check the di-a-ree.”

When I left Missouri river, with my California rig, I had a shovel, pick and pan, the tools they used to dig; My mules gave out along the Platte, where they got alkalied, And I sick with the “di-a-ree,” my laudanum by my side. When I reached the little Blue, I’d one boot and a shoe, Which I thought by greasing once or twice, would last me nearly through; I had needles, threads and pills, which my mammy did prescribe, And a flint-lock musket full, to shoot the Digger tribe, But I left them all on Goose Creek where I freely did imbibe.

I joined in with a train from Pike; at Independence Rock, The Indians came in that night, stampeded all their stock; They laughed at me, said, “Go a-foot,”but soon they stopped their fun, For my old mule was left behind so poor he could not run. So I packed my fancy nag, for the rest I could not wait, And I traveled up Sweet Water, till I came to Devil’s Gate; When my mule gave out in sight of where I started in the morn, I’d have given all my boots and shoes if I had not been born, Or I’d rather shipped at New Orleans, to swim around the Horn.

I arrived at Salt Lake City, on the 18th of July, Old Brigham Young was on a “bust,” he swore they’d never die; I went to the see the Jordan, with a lady, God forgive her, She took me to the water’s edge, and shoved me in the river; I crawled out and started on, and managed very well, Until I struck the Humboldt, which I thought was nearly hell, I traveled till I struck the sink where outlet can’t be found, The Lord got through late Saturday night, he’d finished all around, But would not work on Sunday, so he run it on the ground.

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! !6 The Peyouts stole what grub I had, they left me not a bite, And now the devil was to pay—the Desert was in sight; And as the people passed along, they’d say to me, “You fool, You’ll never get through the world, unless you leave that mule.” But I pushed, pulled and coaxed, till I finally made a start, And his bones, they squeaked and rattled so, I thought he’d fall apart, I killed a buzzard now and then, gave Clip the legs and head. We crossed the Truckee thirty times, but not a tear was shed, We crossed the summit, took the trail, that to Nevada led.

When I got to Sacramento, I got on a little tight, I lodged aboard the Prison brig, one-half a day and night; I vamosed when I got ashore, went to the Northern mines, There found the saying very true, “All is not gold that shines.” I dug, packed and chopped, and have drifted night and day, But I haven’t struck a single lead, that would me wages pay, At home they think we ought to have gold on our cabin shelves, Wear high-heeled boots, well blacked, instead of rubbers, No. twelves; But let them come and try it, till they satisfy themselves.

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! !7 BOUND FOR THE LAND OF WASHOE, 1863 Mart Taylor, Virginia City Accompanied by her mentor, Jake Williams, on banjo, sixteen year old Lotta Crabtree sang this song in Virginia City to cheer the miners after a difficult winter. Beginning 1856, Taylor sought to counter what he saw as John Stone’s “vulgar” verses and the 1863 song was his last effort with Lotta who was now being mentored on the banjo and in minstrel theater by Jake Wallace.

Exciting times all around the town, Glory, Glory to Washoe. Stocks are up and stocks are down, Glory to old Washoe.

Washoe! Washoe! Bound for the land of Washoe, And I owned three feet in the “Old Dead Beat,” And I’m bound for the land of Washoe.

There is the big Gould and Curry and the Great Wide West. Glory, Glory to Washoe. O! I think they are the largest and the best, Glory to old Washoe.

There is the Yellow Jacket tunnel and my Mary Ann. Glory, Glory to Washoe. Oh, Johnny, how is your dog, or any other man, Glory to old Washoe.

Oh, see the crowd on Montgomery Street. Glory, Glory to Washoe. Everybody is talking feet, Glory to old Washoe.

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! !8 BALDY GREEN, 1865 Charley Rhoades, Virginia City This song is discussed at length in my book, The Strychnine Banjo. It seems to have been composed during a performance of a play parody, Arrah-no-poke, during late 1865 at The Music Hall on D Street in Virginia City and later performed at Piper’s Opera House around 1867—reprised because Baldy was robbed three times, ensuring the songs lasting popularity.

Drury Wells wrote: Speaking of holdups, I call to mind a catchy bit of frontier balladry called Baldy Green, which used to be the most popular song on the Comstock. Charley Reed’s Chicken Tamale and Daniel’s Razzle Dazzle couldn’t compare. K.B. Brown used to laugh and stamp his feet when he heard Charley Rhoades play the banjo and sing it. ‘Everybody stamped their feet in those days,’ explained ‘K.B.’ in reminiscent strain. ‘That was before the dudes had introduced the custom of clapping. You can bet your life that anybody would have been tarred and feathered or ridden out of town on a rail just as quickly for clapping his hands as he would for wearing a swallow-tail coat. Old Judge Mesick and Jonas Seely and Colonel Bob Taylor and Jase Baldwin and Rollin Daggett, all used to sit together in John Piper’s old Opera House, and whenever Rhoades would come out and sing Baldy Green they’d hit on the benches in front of them with their six-shooters and call “Bully!” until Piper would try to give them back their money to get them to stop. I’ll always believe that Rhoades wrote Baldy Green himself, though I understand Hank Donnelly, Superintendent of the Eureka Con. mine tried to prove that Alf Doten did. The way the song came to be written was that Wells-Fargo’s stages were being robbed nearly every day, just as if Milton Sharp or Black Bart had been there, and their high- toned driver, Baldy Green, seemed to be the favorite with the road agents. Anyway, they stopped him oftener than any of the others. Some suspicious people used to say that Baldy was in with the play and gave the boys the right tip, but that was all josh. Everybody who knew Baldy protested that it wasn’t so, but it made him madder to tell it on him that it really was true. One of the exciting events in Baldy’s much-interrupted career is immortalized in the song.

I’ll tell you all a story, and I’ll tell it in a song And I hope that it will please you, for it won’t detain you long; ‘Tis about one of the old boys, so gallus and so fine, Who used to carry mails, on the Pioneer Line.

He was the greatest favor-ite, that ever yet was seen, He was known about Virginny by the name of Baldy Green. Oh, he swung a whip so gracefully, for he was bound to shine— For he was a high-toned driver, on the Pioneer Line.

Now, as he was driving out one night, as lively as a coon, He saw three men jump in the road, by the pale light of the moon; Two sprang for the leaders, while one his shotgun cocks, Saying, ‘Baldy, we hate to trouble you, but just pass us out the box.”

When Baldy heard them say these words, he opened wide his eyes, He didn’t know what in the world to do for it took him by surprise. Then he reached into the boot, saying, “Take it, sirs, with pleasure.” So out into the middle of the road went Wells and Fargo’s treasure.

Now, when they got the treasure box they seemed quite satisfied, For the man who held the leaders then politely stepped aside. Saying “Baldy, we’ve got what we want, so drive along your team,” Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !9 And he made the quickest time to Silver City ever seen. Don’t say greenbacks to Baldy now, it makes him feel so sore, He’d traveled the road many a time, but was never stopped before. Oh, the chances they were three to one and shotguns were the game, And if you’d ‘a been in Baldy’s place you’d a shelled her out the same.

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! !10 EXCELSIOR, 1866 Short Fellow, Washoe Valley Longfellow would have penned his Excelsior like this if he had been riding home on a cold night after long hours soldiering in Washoe City.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through a Washoe village passed, The driver of a scrubby team; And every now and then he’d scream, Excelsior!

His brow was sunburned, and his eye, Flashed like a meteor in the sky: And the clam-horn’s note were far surpassed, By the accents of that fearful blast— Excelsior!

“Try not the pass,” so Paddy spake: “The snow won’t melt for mor’n a wake, The roarin’ Truckee’s dane and cowld,” But still that voice defiant howled Excelsior!

“Oh stay,” the maiden said, and rest, Thy classic mug upon my breast.” The weary traveler wiped his nose, And higher yet those accents rose— Excelsior!

“Beware the snow storm and the sleet; Beware the treacherous wildcat feet.” This was his comrade’s last good-bye; But still he answered with a sigh— Excelsior!

As homeward at the break of day, A miner plods his weary way. On end stood each and every hair. For a voice screamed thro’ the startled air: Excelsior!

A man was found by a faithful pup, With snow and ice half covered up, Hungry, cold and stiff—not dead— Who faintly, very faintly, said— Excelsior!

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! !11 At Huffaker’s he soon was seen, Imbibing nitro-glycerine: And as he quaffed the liquid dram, In accents wild he cried—God d—n, Excelsior!

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! !12 THE ARTFUL JERKER, 1868 Bolivar Spikens, Gold Hill On March 15, 1868, Gold Hill News editor Alf Doten and his landlord’s wife settled in for an evening of spiritualism. He impressed her greatly with his ability to raise the spirits by tipping the table. They began an affair. Three days later, on the morning of March 18, after partaking of the St. Patrick’s Day Fenian Grand Ball at the Athletic Club, Doten published this work by “Bolivar Spikens.”

Bring me, sweet ‘Jerker,’ some lager beer! And sit you down here by me.” So we sat on the brightest of all summer days, Drinking lager, and I singing love’s sweetest lays, ‘Till her dark eyes beamed with a softening gaze, That was mightily pleasant to see.

“Bring us, dark ‘Jerker’, some brandy punch!’ And a pitcher full she and me, Contrived to imbibe, ‘till I clasped at her waist, Caring for naught but that dear, dear face, Radiant glowing with love’s charming grace, And amorous glances free.

“Bring, dearest ‘Jerker,’ some whiskey straight!” We drank it, and she sank down, Into my lap, and I dreamed to my breast, My darling “young gal from Sonoma” I pressed, And we both sweetly snored in the realms of the blest, The lovingest pair in town.

Darn that old “Jerker,” Ah! She was a “bilk”, Of the “very first water”, I own, For when I awoke, I found I was “sold;” “Gone through” by this “Jerker” so loving and bold, She had robbed me of sixty-three dollars in gold, And “vamosed” for parts unknown.

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! !13 THE COLLOQUY OF THE OLD TIMERS, c.1868 Dr. Henry De Groot, Ione Dr. De Groot arrived in California during 1848 and returned in 1849. During 1860 and 1863, he created the first good maps of Nevada. He had a particular interest in names and was assigned to name Lake Tahoe. From 1864 to 1867 he helped run a newspaper in Ione, Nye County. It was probably during this period that, reflecting on the 49ers, De Groot began composition of “The Colloquy Of The Old Timers”—first published during 1876 by The Golden Era. According to accounts, De Groot never sent the work to be printed but in some manner it reached the editor. Or, possibly, he published it in his Nye County News and no copies survived. In 1881, Dan DeQuille published a shortened version under the borrowed title, “The Days of ’49.” The third verse suggests that De Groot’s poem was begun during 1867 or 1868. The poem was long lauded as being the most authentic in terms of language from the diggings. Its nostalgia for the early days of the gold rush and it racist verses are authentic to the attitude of miners during this period. The poem is framed as a conversation between Dan who lives in Idaho and Jim who has traveled from the Southwest. The first part lists places on a journey through diggings undertaken in California between roughly 1850 and 1854. The second part lists individuals and their fates—a theme that may have directly inspired Charley Rhoades’ song, “The Days of ’49.” Dan digresses to the story of Henry Van Sickle shooting Sam Brown in Carson Valley during 1861. Thirdly, Jim digresses to stories of fighting Indians in the Southwest. Finally, the poem describes Dan’s adventures in Idaho. The poem concludes with a lofty theme of eternal mining.

“Hello!” “Hello!” “Why Jim! “Why Dan!” “Good Lord! I want to know!” “Well, well! old fel! Give us your han’- “Bu, Jim, how does it go?”

“Oh! sometimes gay and sometimes rough— And how’s it go with you?” “Well, times jus’ now’s a little tough Up here in Idaho.

“But where ya been, Jim, ever since We left the Stanislow, And pulled up stakes down at Dent’s— Now eighteen years ago?”

“Wal, since that time that we put out On that stampede from Stoney, Been mos’ the time knockin’ about Down in Air-e-zoney.

Only been back a month or so, And thought I’d take a tramp Through the old diggin’s long with Jo, Who stops at Nigger Camp.

Started from Alpha on our trip, And passed up the Divide, Through Tangle-Leg and Let-Her-Rip, Red Dog and Whiskey Slide. Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !14 Then after leaven’ thar we went Down by the Tail Holt mill, ‘Crost Greenhorn Mountain to Snow Tent, And up to Gouge-Eye Hill.

From Gouge-Eye down to Esperance, Slap Jack and Oro Fin; Through Deadwood over to Last Chance, Root Hog and Lost Ravine.

From Petticoat, then Shirt-Tail Flat, And on by Murderer’s Bar, Crost Bloody Run and thro’ Wild Cat, To Poker and Lone Star.

Then Angel’s Camp down by Rawhide We took a run one night, Through Chinese Roost and Satan’s Pride Across to Hell’s Delight.

Then came along to Poverty, Dead Broke and Bottle Ridge, By Hangtown, Poor Man and Lone Tree, Garrote and Smash-up Bridge,

Through Nip and Tuck and old Bear Trap, Coon Hollow and Fair Play, Along the Scorpion and Fir Gap, Kanaka and Ed Rey.

We stopped one day at Never Sweat, Another up at Ophir, Then moved our boots on to You Bet, And struck across by Gopher

To Sucker, near Grass Widow Bend, What as’t was getting late, We brought our journey to an end Down by the Devil’s Gate.”

“Well, Jim, you must uv seen a heap; I’d like to make the rounds As you have done, and take a peep Through the old stamping grounds.”

“Y-a-s, but I tell you what it is, The times they ain’t no more In Californy as they was ‘Way back in Fifty-Four.

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! !15 ‘Hits swarming with them Chinese rats, Lots tsk the country, sure, A race that lives on dogs and cats, Will make all mean or poor.”

“But ‘bout the girls and Schneider’s frow, And Kate and Sal Magee? I ‘spose they’ve all got married now— Leastwise they ought to be.”

“Married! You can buck high on that; Some of them two, three times; First fellows they just had to get— They didn’t have the dimes.”

“Well! well! do tell! is that they way The gals is going on? But how’s the boys and old man Ray, And Ike and Steve and John?

And what become of Zaccheus Wade, Who run the big mule train?” “Wall, Zach he made his pile, they said, And then went back to Maine.

And so did old Pop Ray and Steve, And Ike and Johnny Yates,— All I made a raise at last, I believe, And went home to the States.”

“And Slater, him that took the trip With us to Yazoo Branch?” “Wal, Slate he kind o’ lost his grip, And settled on a ranch.”

“And Jackass Jones that came about With whiskey on the Bar?” “Wal, Jackass, too, he petered out, And went—I don’t know whar.”

“And tell me, where is Jerry Ring, Who kept the Grizzly Bear, Jes’ down forninst the Lobscouse Spring, And kilt the Greaser there?

That Greaser Jesus, don’t you know, That stabbed Mike at the ball, The time we had the fandango At Blood and Thunder Hall?”

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! !16 “Oh, Jerry didn’t no no good, Got crazy ‘bout a woman, And tuck at last to drinkin’ hard, ‘Cause she got sort o’common—

Y-a-s, was by nature low inclined, And went clean to the bad, Which worked so on to Jerry’s mind Hit almost made him mad.

Dick went one day up Pike Divide, And thar lay Jerry dead, A navy pistol by his side,— A bullet through his head,”

“Tight papers them on Jerry Ring, But, Jim, as sure as you live, Them women is a dreadful thing— For a man to have to do with.

But Plug Hat Smith that kept a stand— Sold pens and ink and such?” “Wal, Plug he helt a poorish hand, And never struck it rich.

Got sort o’luny and stage-struck, Cut up a heap o’capers, And final went below and tuck To writin’ for the papers,”

“And Jolly Jake, that drove so long There on the Lightnin’ Line, And afterwards from One-horse Town To Webfoot and Port Wine?”

“Got hurt on Bogus Thunder Hill— Thrower on his horses’ necks— Was carried up to Coyoteville, And thar hant in his checks.

“’T was kind o’ queer; but these they said, War the the last words of Jake, Wal, boys, I’m on the down-hill grade, And cannot reach the break.’”

“And Butcher Brown that used to boast He’d killed so many men?” “Ah, Butch, he met his match at last— Van Sickle settled him”

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! !17 “Went out to Washoe, kilt three thar, And found it getting hot; His health required a change of air, And he got up and got.

Said how he’d sent a baker’s dozen Across lots to the grave; Would like to make the number even Before he took his leave.

So went for Van and came blamed nigh A gittin’ him, they say, Then on his horse, that stood near by, He jumped and rode away.

Now Henry ain’t no hand to blow, But jes’ that sort o’feller, On which it’s always safe to go Your very bottom dollar,

Said to himself, like, ‘Now this whelp, To get his even tally, Will very likely go and kelp Some neighbor up the valley.

Reckon I’d better block his game, And do the thing at one’t; Besides, I don’t much like this same Rough way o’ being bounced.’

When Sam had got off ‘bout a mild, He heard a minie hum, Looked round, and that war Van well-heeled— Just coming after him.

Not fancying much that minie’s tone, Sam he put off and ran, Like he would rather save his own Than raise the ha’r o’ Van.

And so they rid—wal, I suspect, Nigh on a three-mild race— Exchanging shots without effect, Who Van gave up the chase—

Leastwise lay off, for about midnight, When Sam came back to Lute’s, He let him out in a squar fight Jes’ standin’ in his boots.

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! !18 Next day the jury found deceased, His name was Samuel Brown, And further that they all believed He had been taken down

By one Van Sickle, and somewhar About Lute Old’s last night, And on their solemn oaths did swar He served the d—-d cuss right!”

“Bully for Van! He’s hard to beat— And for the jury too— Though most a shame that way to cheat The gallows of its due.

Where’s sailor Jack, that used to cruise With Alabama and Yank, Them chaps that bilked the boarding-house And bust the faro-bank?”

“Jack left the country on a ship, And t’others, I don’t know as They ever got back fro the trip They tuck to Barbacoas.”

“Learn anything ‘bout Teddy Kearu Or Bruisse Bob Magoon?” “Both down that in the Bay, I learn, Keeping a 12 1/2 cents saloon.”

“And him that wore the big moostache?” “You mean that rich French count? He’s down that too—a slinging hash At the Miner’s Restaurant.

Yas, Frisco’s lousy with them sorts And bums of all condition, Some of them capping for their sports, Some playing politician.”

“But tell me, Jim, about the sights, And what you’ve done and seen; Reckon you’ve had some ‘Pache fights, Down yonder where you’ve been?”

“Y-a-s, got us in a rocky pass, And there corralled one day, They had a dead sure thing on us— Couldn’t fight nor get away.

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! !19 And ‘fore our party could back out, They shot poor Fred McKean,— The arrers flying think about, But no a varmint seen.

And when I found that Fred would die, I felt almighty bad, And jist laughed out,—I couldn’t cry, I was so thundering mad.

And then I said, ‘Now, look here, boys, Ef you would save your lives. You jist put up them shootin’ toys, And sail in with your knives.’

And raisin’ quick the ‘Pache whoop, I started on ahead—“ “And did the t’others back you up?” “Yes, Dan, you bet they did!

And when the cusses seed us come, They raised a scroughing yell, To which our boys sang out each one, ‘Wade in, and give ‘em—fits!’

And of our band I b’lieve the whole Was wounded more or less; But we made good Ingins of them all, And they’ll stay good, I guess.

Poor Fred, when I cam back to him, Though trying hard to speak, Could only say, ‘Tell mother, Jim,’ He was so powerful weak.

And the next day we made his grave Upon a little hill, Under the shade of a mesquite grove, On the road to Cristoval.

We had after that another fight With them yar pesky fellows, Down at Arroya Saucerlite, Among the little willows.

But that they didn’t get us foul,— We’d larnt their sneaking ways,— And you can swar we made ‘em howl, And git between two days.

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! !20 As for their names, why, Dan, sich frights You never came acrost— Espirtu Santo which the whites They called the Holy Ghost.

Las Mariquitas, Juan de Dios— These names they seemed so funny. We christened on the Runty Marias, And t’other Pious Johnny.

We altered heaps o’Greaser names,— Los Ojos de Inez, Sierra Blanco, Sebastians, El Cobra, and La Paz.

So, too, we changed ‘mongst other things, San Pedro to St. Pat, The Eyes of Inez to Mud Spring, La Paz to Quaker Flat.

El Pajaro we called The Bird, La Reina, Gypsy Queen; Salinas and El Rio Verde, Salt River and The Green.

San Nicholas we dubbed Old Nic, Moreno, Dirty Dun; Arroyo Muerto, Murder Creek; Puerco, Ground Hog Run.

We cut our names on every cross, And burnt some to the ground, To let the natives know their bless, The white man, had been round.

Warm thar! Why, Dan, ’t was jes’ that hot, That beaus were cooked well done. And we always filed the coffee-pot, Hit standing in the sun.

Soldiers who died they nearly froze,— Least that’s the story they tell— And sent right back for their underclothes The moment they got to—well

Not to the land of the holy ones, Whar blood shall cease to flow; And thar being no use for these sons of guns, They’re not very apt to go.

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! !21 “But, Dan, how has it been with you, Off on some wild-goose chase?” “Yes, took a trip to Carriboo And over on the Peace:

Staid there three years and then turned south, Came back to Camp McPhail, And so on down to Quesnelle Mouth, And cross the La Heche Trail

To Kamloops and Okinagane, And through the Grand Coule, By way of the Smilkameen, Clean round to Kootenai.

Stopped till I made a raise again, Then started out anew, And striking cross by Coeur d’Alene, Came on to Idaho.”

“I’d a class call at Tete l’June, In May of Fifty-seven, A little more and there’s have been Another saint in heaven.

A half-breed Brule, a vicious set, There—with a fishing spear— The broken point is in me yet, The scar, you see it here.

A well-aimed shot from Johnny Noon, And at a single bound That savage passed from Tete l’June To the happy hunting ground.”

“Well, Dan, you’ve been about some, too— But tell me, if you know, What had become of Ned McGrew, And what is Sleepy Joe?”

And Poker Pete and Monte Bill, And—I forget his name— What used to run the whisky-mill, And keep the keno game?’

“Well, as for Ned, can’t ‘zactly say, But ‘bout the t’other three, The last we heard, were up this way A hanging on a tree,—

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! !22 Went into the Road Agency Along with Texas Jim; The Vigilants of Montany Likewise also got him.

Sleepy was drowned at upper Dallas, And so was Al La Tour— Went in a skift over the falls, And we didn’t see ‘em no more.

Some think that New was eat by bears, And I must think so, too, Cause didn’t one gobble up Nic McNares On the trail to Cariboo?

Cold up North! I’ve known a name To congeal in my mouth, And that is how the saying came About the ‘frozen truth.’

Yes, and I’ve seen stranger feats, You know, Jim, I’m no liar,— The flames freeze into solid sheet, As they rose up from the fire.”

“Sure that’s right cold! But tell me, Dan, How goes the mining game, And what’s the chance here for a man To strike a paying claim?”

“Well, jest ‘bout here it’s rather slim, But I’ve got one that pays, So pitch right in here with me, Jim, And when we’ve made a raise,

We’ll pull of north with a good rig, For yesterday i seen Gus Gape, who said they’d struck it big High up on the Stickeen.

Or if you rather like the south, Why, then it’s south we’ll go; The only drawback is the drouth, Down thar ar way, you know.”

The next we hear of Dan and Jim may be on the Yukon, Or in the forests, damp and dim, That shade the Amazon;

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! !23 Or what’s more likely still, we shall Hear of them on their way To the Diamond Fields beyond the Vaal In Southern Africa.

And if there be no mines up there For them to prospect, then They’ll surely leave the Heavenly shore For the Pacific Coast again.

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! !24 THE DAYS OF '49, 1868 Charley Rhoades, Virginia City This song and its origins are discussed at length in my book, “The Strychnine Banjo”. It appears to have been composed by Rhoades for a benefit night, December 9, 1868 in Piper’s Opera House, Virginia City, for his minstrel partner, Otto Burbank. A parody of “Black Crook”, the show featured “hits at locals”. Beginning in 1869, Jake Wallace campaigned the song in San Francisco and then up and down California. After 1872, this song became the great and universal anthem of the gold rush, sung by pioneer societies across the nation for decades. This is Wallace’s version, as he sang it during 1894 at San Francisco’s Midwinter Exposition, in the pioneer village called Gold Gulch.

Oh! here you see Old Tom Moore, A relic of former days; A bummer too they call me now, But what care I for praise. My heart is filled with the days of yore, And oft do I repine For the days of old, the days of gold. In the days of ’49.

I’d comrades then that loved me well A brave and jovial crew. And all the boys that now remain I know there is but few. They were good souls, they never flinched Or never yell or whine, But like good old bricks They stood the kicks, In the days of ’49.

There was Monte Pete, I’ll ne’re forget The pluck he always had. He’d deal for you both night and day As long as you had a scad. One night a pistol laid him out; Twa’s his last lay-out in fine, It caught Pete sure, right in the door In the days of ’49.

There was Poker Bill, one of our boys And always in for a game. And whether he lost or whether he won To him ’twas all the same. He’d pass the “buck” and ante a slug, And go a hatful blind, but in the game of death Bill lost his breath In the days of ’49.

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! !25 There was New York Jack A butcher boy, so fond of getting tight, Whenever Jack got on a spree He was spoiling for a fight. One day he ran against knife, In the hands of old Bob Cline, And over Jake we held a wake In the days of ’49.

There was Rattlesnake Jim, Who could outran a bull you bet. He roared all day and he roared all night, I believe he is roaring yet. One night he fell into a prospect hold, Twa’s a roaring bad design. In that hole he roared out his soul In the days of ’49.

There was old lame Jess a hard old cuss Who never did repent. He never missed a single meal, And never paid a cent. But poor old Jake like all the rest, Did at length to death resign. For in his boom he went up the flume In the days of ’49.

Of all the comrads I had then, There’s none left to boast. And here I walk around the Camp Like some poor wandering ghost. As as I go from place to place, Folks call me a wandering sign, And say there’s old Tom Moore A bummer sure, of the days of ’49.

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! !26 LITTLE BREECHES, 1870 Anon. A Pike County View of Special Providence, written for the Nevada State Journal.

I don’t go much on religion, I never ain’t had much show; But I’ve got a middling right grip, sir, On the handful o’things that I know. I don’t pan out on the prophets And freewill and that sort of thing— But I believe in God and the angels, Ever since one night last Spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along— No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong. Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight— And I’d larn’t him to chaw terbacker, Jes to keep his milk teethwhite.

The snow came down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart’s store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started— I heard a little squall And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze over with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for him far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon Snowed under a soft white mound, Up sot, dead beat—but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow critter’s aid— I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. By this the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhere thar.

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! !27 We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in and seen them huddled that, So warm and sleepy and white. And thar, sat Little Breeches and chirped As peart as ever you see, “I want a chaw of terbacker, And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he get thar? Angels, He never could have walked in that storm. They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around The Throne.

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! !28 THE WASHOE CANARY, 1871 Anon., Reno. A miner’s canary: A caged bird kept caged in mines, as its demise provided a warning of dangerous levels of toxic gases. Here, the canary appears to be the miner himself and he takes on his landlord.

Within a cabin, six by ten, Jem Beggs was dreaming of his power, When he should make his pile and leave The spot he’d worked for many an hour. In dreams thro’ “Rag Town” camp he bare The treasure of a millionaire; And as he slung his cash on high, He stole a smile and yanked a sigh, Like a Washoe canary bird.

An hour passed on—Jem Beggs awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his landlord shriek, “Your board! Your board! You bilk! You sneak!” He woke to fight ‘midst dust and smoke, And yell, and cuss, and poker-stroke, And ear-rings falling fast, He brought his double-fist to bear Upon the landlord’s larboard ear, And Jem, he raised a yell: Strike—till you close his starboard eye! Strike—till you make the claret fly! Jem stole a smile and breathed a sigh For the Washoe canary bird.

They fought like tigers, long and well; They strewed the floor with Jem’s bedclothes; Jem straightened out, the landlord fell, Bleeding at mouth and nose. When his surrounding comrades saw His smile, then rang their loud hurrah, And the big fight was won. They saw the landlord’s peepers close, His hairless scalp, his battered nose— We’ll have no more conduct like those, Said the Washoe canary bird.

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! !29 Go to Nevada’s distant land, Where Humboldt sinks beneath the sand; To where Star City’s site now stands— You’ll find Jem’s famous cabin. Explore the deserts up and down; Gaze on her hills of purple brown, Where numerous dark volcanoes frown, You’ll hear, as you approach the town, A sound break on the desert air, And through the hills and canyons tear, Like double barreled thunder: Yaw-he, yaw-he, yaw-he— ‘Tis Washoe’s famed Ca-nai-ri-e.

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! !30 FIRE IN THE TUNNEL, 1872 G. H. Jennings, Esq., Virginia City. This may be the only historical lyric about the V&T railroad. Reverend Ayers wrote: Oct. 17, 1872, as an excursion train, loaded with passengers, most of whom were women and children, rounded the curve close below the tunnel and with No. 6 train thundering close behind, the timbering in the tunnel was discovered by the fireman to be on fire. The engineer, Johnny Batholomew, comprehended the position at a glance, made one of the most brilliant dashes, under the circumstances, on record. The train passed through the tunnel safely, when to have stopped short would have been sure death. The cab caught fire and had to be rebuilt.

I ain’t very much on the fancy, And all that sort of stuff, For an engineer on the railroad, Is apt to be more, “on the rough”. He don’t “go much” on “his handsome,” I freely “acknowledge the corn.” But he has got to “git up” on his “wide-awake”, That’s “just as sure’s your ’re born.”

Now, I’ll tell you a little story, ‘Bout “a run” we had for our necks, When we thought “old Gabe” had called us, To “ante up our checks.” We came ‘round the curve by the tunnel, Just beyond the American Flat, When my fireman sings out, “Johnny! Look ahead! My God, what’s that?”

You bet, I warn’t long in sightin’, There was plenty for me to see, With a train full of kids an’ women, And their lives all hangin’ on me. For the tunnel was roarin’ and blazin’, All ragin’ with fire an’ smoke, And “Number Six” close behind us,’’ “Quick, sonny! Shove in the coke.”

Whistle “down brakes” I first thought, Then, thinks I, “old boy, ‘t won’t do”, And with hand on throttle an’ lever, I knew I must roll ‘em through! Through the grim mouth of the tunnel, Through smoke an’flame as well, Right into the “gateway of death,” boys, Right smack through the “jaws of hell”!

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! !31 The staunch “old gal” felt the pressure, Of steam through her in’r joints. She acted just like she was human, Just like she “knew all the points.” She glided along the tramway, With speed of a lightning flash, With a howl assuring us safety, Regardless of wreck or crash.

I s’pose I might have “jumped the train,” In hope to save sinew and bone, And left them women and children, To take that ride alone. But I tho’t of a day of reck’nin’, And whatever “Old John” done here, No Lord aint’t going to say to him then, “You went back as an engineer.”

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! !32 ARE YOU A HOOD-A-LUM, 1872 Sellerman, Pine Grove The Irish and German boys at the Pine Grove Lyceum made fun of the bibbed shirts who scorned them as low. The upper crust had labeled them with a term—hoodlum--recently coined to describe Irish street thugs who beat up the Chinese along the Barbary Coast in San Francisco.

I came to town the other day about a week or more, I traveled many a weary mile my feet were very sore. I called at Jerry G’s saloon to get a little rum, He looked at me and smiling said, are you a Hood-a-lum.

Are you a Hood-a-lum – I’m a hood-a-lum, I hear where’er I go, What is this Hood-a-lum, does any body know.

Next day I went up to the mine and soon I found the boss, He hardly spoke a word to me, he was so very cross. I asked if he could give me work, he looked at me so glum, Says he, I have no word for you, you are a Hood-a-lum.

I started down the street again, I felt a little vexed, Not knowing what the people meant, though very much perplexed. A fellow looked at me and said I want you to keep mum, Or I will put a head on you, I’m big chief Hood-a-lum.

I went to buy a suit of clothes, a hat and pair of boots, The store man said how very cheap, he sold the cheapest suits. I said to him how can you dare to ask me such a sum, There cheap says he I think said I you are a Hood-a-lum.

I met a lady at a ball, I thought myself in luck, She smiled so very sweet, on me of course she must be stuck. I told her I would like to call, she said I need not come, I did not tell her but I thought she was a Hood-a-lum.

This word is nearly new to me, I hear it talked about, I know not what to think of it, I cannot make it out. Next evening, I intend to go and see the Lyceum, In hope that I might find one there, a genuine Hood-a-lum.

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! !33 OSCEOLA, 1877 R.G. Schofield, Osceola

I send effusion number two To help you fill your papers And give you all the local news Of Osceola capers.

The place is growing pretty fast And should be called a city. Two stores, two boarding houses, forge, And whiskey mills aplenty.

Old Schultz has been with us awhile To boss Mongolian labor And try his hand at panning dirt, Or cinch his nearest neighbor.

There’s Commins come To assess our gold and labor. I must not say too much of him, For I might want his favor.

George Doane is here and keeping store, With goods of all descriptions, Dried apples, nails, potatoes, cloth, His clerk will fill prescriptions.

Tip Johnson stands behind the bar With gold scales nice and handy, But if you want the coin from him Your dust must not be sandy.

Joe Ayers, a noted blacksmith is, Who makes his grub by stealing, But this is quite a paradox For honest is his dealing.

Ned Allen, his is down the creek, And brags about his rocker He says it beats all rockers made I’d like to find his locker.

There’s Bibbins minding boots and shoes, And hoisting up big boulders, But that you know is naught for him, He has such wondrous shoulders.

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! !34 My friend Chappell is growing thin, Since we took out the nugget. The only thing that troubles him A partner t’was that dug it.

My news is done, so fare you well. I’ll come unto un ending, For you’ll get sick to hear from me Should I keep on my sending.

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! !35 CHICKEN TOMALES, 1879 Charley Reed, Virginia City This lyric was probably sung to the tune of “Upidee”. It is a parody of Longfellow’s “Excelsior.” Here, we see a Chinese man defeat the “granger” at a time when anti-Chinese feeling and laws were building in the far West. Nonetheless, the story casts the Chinese hero in a stereotypical role. The author was a well-known minstrel who performed in Virginia City. In 1916, Walter J. Thompson wrote: Charley Reed was more of a comedian than a minstrel. He was different from Emerson in his style and stage manners. The black on his face was not necessary to his line of entertainment. It was hardly suggestive of negro minstrelsy while he sang songs in other dialects and carried out his comical work on a diversified human interest platform, wherein a white face would have served as effectively as a blackened phiz. He warbled about topics close to the people of the city and the events of the day. Whether his ballad was eulogistic of the nutritive qualities of the “hot chicken tamale,” which then was sold on every street corner, or exploited the wonderful things that were to happen “in 1901,” or told of gay society doings in “Sweet Mooneyville by the Sea,” it was all the same. They hit the public in the right spot and “it was to laugh.”

The shades of night were falling fast, As up and down C street there passed, A heathen with Italic eye, And as he went, this was his cry— Tomales!

His eye was sad, his brow above, Looked like a dried up buckskin glove; And like a broken fish-horn rung, The accents of that well-known tongue— Tomales!

In beer saloons he saw the crowd, And then he yelled out still more loud, (While lunch fiends guzzled, ate and cussed, And swore they’d like his head to bust), Tomales!

“Try not to pass,” the gambler said, “Until I have been duly fed.” The Chinaman, with eye oblique, Bowed lowed and made answer meek, Tomales!

“Come here,” the barkeep said, “and rest, A peppery lunch beneath this breast.” Then John, he winked his crooked eye, And thus let fall his usual cry, Tomales!

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! !36 The hoodlum snarled, “Git out o’ here, Or, by the gods, I’ll have your ear.” The peddler then moved on quite brisk, On cash sales only would he risk, Tomales! “Dish up yer grub,” the granger cried: “Sich truck as that I never tried,” But as he set his basket down, The heathen grumbled, with a frown, Tomales!

“How do you make this wond’rous dish? It is of fowl or flesh or fish?” This the inquisition bold, Into that compound, hot and cold, Tomales!

“Me make ‘em tomale welly nice, Ketch ‘em plenty good lats and mice.” Thus did the cook with truth declaim, The secrets of that dish they name, Tomales!

Then rose the granger’s anger dire, And blazed his auburn locks of fire, While from his hungry maw there came, The remnants of those very same, Tomales!

“Beware the peddler’s awful mite: Beware the hoodlum’s savage bite.” This, the reporter’s last advice, Then calmly tackled, once or twice, Tomales!

Next morning when the sun arose, The granger donned his country clothes, And homeward turned his weary feet, Swearing he ne’er again would eat, Tomales!

No more the one eyed Chinaman, Is seen where once his race he ran; But still his ghost it haunts the spot, And shrieks, although we hear it not, Tomales!

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! !37 THE PRINCESS WEIMAR, 1879 W.K. Weare, Carson City Full of racial stereotypes, this lyric concludes as a ringing bohemian defense of the Native American. It came in the wake of “Life Among The Paiutes”, published during 1876, by Sarah Winnemucca. The “Paiute princess” had married a German.

I had roamed the wide world over, I had sailed on every sea; Tropic clime, or Borean region, Each were commonplace to me.

Belles had sought to win my homage, Sought to win me by their smile; But my heart was cold as winter, I had learned the ways of guile.

I had read the “Tales of Cooper”; Read of “radiant Indian Queens” In the mountains stately forests— On the valley’s lovely greens.

No! no common love should win me— City life was tame and slow; I would woo and wed a princess— To the wild-wood I would go.

So I left the town and market, For the mountain and the mine, In the Golden Age’s birth time, In the year of Forty-Nine.

From its course we turned the river, Where for ages it had rolled, And my comrades all were happy, For its bed was sown with gold.

But my heart was dead within me; Every day the same routine. I had met no forest beauty, I had seen no “Indian Queen.”

Months had passed—’t was Indian summer, And the south wind’s gentle breathe, Came, the soft and sweet forerunner, Of the year’s approaching death.

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! !38 When I left my camp and comrades, Wandered forth among the hills: Faded were the summer’s glories, Dried the spring-time’s gushing rills.

And the sighing of the zephyrs, Through the pine-trees seemed to say, With a sad Aeolian cadence, “Passing, passing all away.”

Suddenly, as if by magic, Stood before my sight arrayed, One more grand realization, Than my fancy had portrayed.

She was dressed—I’ll drop the fashion— But her lovely shoulders bore, One red blanket, somewhat dingy, Simply that, and nothing more.

It was fastened round her bosom, Just above the tawny zones, By some San Diego diamonds, Made from shells of abalones.

Oh, the glory of her coiffure! On the theme I long could dwell; No chignon, but pitch and ashes, With a terebinthine smell.

Oh, the simple child of nature! How she bore my earnest gaze, With a trusting unsuspicion, Rare in these degenerate days.

On her back she bore her dowry— Flattened out upon a board, Hung the heir of all the Pi-Utes— He was gagged and never stirred.

I had learned from friend Longfellow How the noble savage died, With a silent, unrelenting, Fierce, ungovernable pride.

There I learned to solve the puzzle— Early training was the trick; That young brave could die by inches, But could neither cry nor kick.

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! !39 Quickly she unloosed her burden, Flung it down beside a rock; Think of that, Caucasian mothers, Who have feeble nerves to shock.

Then I asked the peerless beauty, What her Indian name might be; And she answered, “Winc-tum-sam-shew Ho-lo-ting-much-Na-goo-chee.”

So ‘t was plain she was a princess, And could my devotion claim; With the Indian—as the white man— Lineage goes by length of name.

But the night was growing colder, And the stars began to shine; What was there that I could do for One so lovely—so divine?

Quickly, then, as if by instinct, I a flask of brandy drew; And I offered that unto her— Wonderful! how well she knew!

Pious men, we Forty-Niners! We who have not fortunes made, For we never think of striving, Without spiritual aid.

Oh, the magnitude of swallow! Oh, the volume of the draught! When I saw her so accomplished, Cupid launched the fatal shaft.

In a canon near the Carson, From the city’s vice away— Where the white man’s missing cattle, Unaccountably do stray—

You may find a red “campoodie,” And within a redder face; There I keep my Indian beauty, There I rear my dusky race.

They shall never know the troubles, That attend on books and schools; Never know the vain repinings, Of the educated fools.

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! !40 Never follow politicians, For the sake of filthy gain, And find out that modern greatness, Builds on truth, and mankind slain.

Never tread the Senate chambers, And descend to take a bribe— Shaming all the honest record, Of the Pi-Ute Indian tribe.

Better track the gaunt coyote, Chase the wild, impetuous hare, Hunt to death the fierce hog-squirrel, Run before the grizzly bear,

Ride a noble mustang, pony, And of manhood loudly brag; While the light of all the harem, Walks behind, and packs the “swag.”

Bad, indeed, these savage instincts, Undefiled by love of gold; Worse, to sell a trusting people, And them selves to shame be sold.

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! !41 SILVER JACK’S RELIGION, c.1885 Senator J.P. Jones, Carson City

I was on the drive in ’60 working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson and ain’t soon expected back. And there was a chap among us by the name of Robert Waite; He was kinder slick and tonguey; I guess he were a graduate.

Bob could gab on any subject from the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy just as smooth and slick as oil. He was what they call a skeptic and he loved to sit and weave High falutin’ words together, saying what he didn’t believe.

One day as we were waiting for a flood to clear the ground, We all sat smoking “nigger head” and hearing Bob expound. Hell, he said, was a humbug and he proved as clear as day That the Bible was a fable and we allowed it looked that way.

As for miracle and such like, “Twas more than he could stand, And for Him they called the Savior, he was just a common man. “You’re a liar,” shouted someone, “And you’ve got to take that back!” Then everybody started. Twas the voice of Silver Jack.

Jack clicked his fists together and he shucked his coat and cried: “’Twas by that thar religion my mother lived and died, And although I haven’t always used the Lord exactly right, When I hear a chump abuse Him he must eat his words or fight.”

Now Bob he warn’t no coward, and he answered bold and free: “Stack your duds, then cut your capers, for you’ll find no flies on me.” And they fit for forty minutes, and the boys would hoot and cheer, When Jack choked up a tooth or two, and Bob he lost an ear.

At last Jack got Bob under, and he slugged him wunst or twict, When Bob finally admitted the Divinity of Christ. Still, Jack kept reasoning with him, ‘till the cuss begun to yell, And allowed he’d been mistaken in his view concerning Hell.

Thus that controversy ended, and they riz up from the ground; And someone found a bottle, and kindly passed I round, And we drank to Jack’s religion in a quiet sort of way. So the spread of infidelity was checked in camp that day.

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! !42 THE MINER’S SOLILOQUY, 1888 Anon., Virginia City Some held that the miner should be grateful for his lot. Others saw the miner as trapped by the corporate wage.

On a pay-day a lone miner came home from his work; He lifted the latch, opened the door with a jerk. Then gloomy and silent his pipe he did fill; While he thought what he’d spent and of the cash in the till.

“I’ve paid for my lodging and likewise my hoard, But the Chinaman I’m dodging, for his bill I’ve ignored. Which leaves for yet a few dollars or so, That I’m darn sure to bet at a game of faro.”

Thus mused the miner as he puffed out the smoke. He was an old-timer and oft had been broke. But times had grown hard since those halycon days, When with Bill, his old “Pard” he had oft made a raise.

As he thought of the past and the years he had wasted— Of the joys and the sorrows which since youth he had tasted, His pipe it went out and he filled it anew, While resolving about a new course to pursue.

“I’ll drink no more gin, no, not a darned drop, I”ll save all my ‘tin’ for all gambling I’ll stop. “Then I’ll buy me a farm where the wild Carson roars, And nice little schoolmarm to do up the chores.”

But, alas for the miner! Alas for his fall; Though he saved every shiner—he soon lost them all. For he dabbled in stocks when they talked of a boom, And thus his spondulicks all went up the flume.

Then he got all the money he could raise and could borrow, And determined, how funny, to get even at faro. He tackled the play with a stack of red checks, And felt pretty gay—till the dealer changed decks;

When he lost a big bet that scattered his pile, And caused him to sweat and the dealer to smile. He tried it again with a bet on the ace, Which the dealer scooped in with his usual grace,

And to make a long story short, his checks they soon vanished, And his good resolutions from his memory were banished. He got as full as a goose, was carried home to his bed, Where he woke next morning with a very swelled head.

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! !43 Now what did he after, ‘tis strange to relate. He ne’er jumped in a shaft, nor blew off his pate, But went to his work with his shift on the ten hundred level, And he’s now running a drift where it’s hot as the devil.

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! !44 THE BOLD BUCCAROO, 1889 Old Horse, Winnemucca At this time, the cowboy as a hero was novel and pictured very much in a romantic light, influenced by the lore of the Mexican vaquero.

Over the hills on a broncho’s back, Far o’er the prairie’s endless track; Away where the bunch-grass, wild and long, Dances and waves to the brooklet’s song; Far from the city’s noisy whirr, With broad sombrero and clanking spurs, Fringed “chaps” and pistols, too, Happy and free rides the bold buckaroo.

Free as the reindeer, trouble and care, Never exists in the buccaroo’s fare. No thought of the future, no trouble or strife, Weakens his slumber or darkens his life; With shout and song he gathers the steers, And is free from worry, trouble and fears. His boots for a pillow, the prairies his camp, His home is the saddle; a star is his lamp.

After the season’s work is done, Mavericks branded and Winter com; Then to the town for the annual spree, Speedeth the buccaroo, wild and free. There, in the dens of vice and sin, ‘Midst sirens’ charms and fumes of gin, There, ‘mid the shouting, swaying throng, Mingles the shout of the buccaroo’s song.

Over the hills on a broncho’s back, Far o’er the prairie’s endless tract, Away, where the bunch-grass layeth dead, He stops at the brook to bathe his head; Far from the gin-mills rushing road, He vows to linger forever more; Slick and sorry, and busted too: Such is the life of the bold buccaroo.

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! !45 OUT OF CARSON, 1892 Amy Requa, Carson City A local version of a widely known recitation.

Out of Carson City in a Pullman Train, For six months a wanderer on the raging main, Came a young explorer, tall and slim and swell, Quite extensive whiskers and light moustache as well.

Through a quiet village now the train doth glide, Empty seat behind him, no one at his side. Enter aged couple, take the hindmost seat, Enter blushing maiden, pretty and petite.

Tremblingly she falters, is this seat engaged, Sees the aged couple, properly enraged. Young explorer rises, sees her ticket through, Looks out on the snow shed and knows just what he’ll do.

Pleasantly they chatter, how the cinders fly, Soon the young explorer gets one in his eye. Sympathetic maiden turns her head about, Please sir can I help you try and get it out.

Then the young explorer feels a gentle clutch, Hears a gentle murmur, does it hurt you much. Rip, slap, bang, into a tunnel quiet, Oh the blessed darkness, black as Egypt’s night.

Out into the sunshine glides the Pullman Train, The young explorer’s beaver is ruffled just a grain. The maiden’s hair is tumbled and there soon appears, A dainty little earring in that horrid fellow’s beard.

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! !46 LAKE TAHOE GIVES NOT UP HER DEAD, 1894 W.E. Hazen, Carson City During April of 1894, Hazen and his son went camping at Lake Tahoe. They talked of joining his wife who had died during January. During May, Hazen committed suicide at the Arlington House Hotel in Carson City. This poem was found on his body. In 1896, the words were published as a song. In 1897, Hazen’s son killed himself.

Others have praised thy beauteous tints,, With which Niagra’s rainbows vie; Others have praised thy crystal depths, In which thy grander glories lie.

In praiseful prose, in ode, in song, Thy every charm has been portrayed. The camera’s light, the artist’s skill, Have to thee highest tribute paid.

To perfect thou in Nature’s sight, In size and symmetry of form, For Summer’s sun to make thee less, Or show the forces of rain, or storm.

And Nature’s edict has forbid King Frost to breathe on thee so chill, As o’er to fetter free waves, That rise to billows as her will.

I grant thee each and every charm, That ever in thy praise was said, Yet this to me is more than all, Lake Tahoe gives not up her dead.

Guard me, fair Tahoe, let me rest, With thy blue waters o’er me head, Grant me my wish to with thee stay, Dear Tahoe give not up the dead.

But let thy waves a requiem sing, No funeral rite be o’er me said. To thy charm I home pay, Lake Tahoe gives not up her dead.

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! !47 THE MIRACULOUS BULL, 1894 Joseph T. Goodman, formerly from Virginia City Sam Davis published this poem in his “Midwinter Appeal and Forty Niner Journal”, at Gold Gulch, a ‘49er theme village dreamt up by Davis for San Francisco’s 1894 Midwinter Exposition in Golden Gate Park. Goodman had moved to California but is generally considered to have written in the “sagebrush school.” In that same informal fraternity, Davis ran the Carson Appeal and when he pointed out the dilapidated state of his building local prize-fighter Billy Armstrong suggested he take it to this California fair. Davis turned his Exposition paper into a send-up, in the mode of rough literature since the pioneer days. Goodman contributed this piece about former editor of Virginia City’s Territorial Enterprise and Nevada Congressman R.M. Daggett. When he had been editor of the Enterprise, Goodman had hired Sam Clemens. Like Davis, Clemens and others, Goodman could write serious literature. Davis’ Midwinter Appeal described this poem: An Adventure of Hon. R.M. Dagger, as Related by a former partner at the ’49 Camp.

So, you’re tenderfoot comers to whom all is new? Just consider you’ve full and free scope. Be seated ma’am—only a campstool, it’s true, But you’ll not scorn the offer, I hope. Daughter, likely? No! Wife, maybe? What, neither the two? Well, it’s not the worst sin to elope; And, if you two have done it, the best thing for you Is to join in the swim on this Slope.

We old-timers, you bet you, are all at a loss When you talk of that trip on the keers; There has been a big change since we nailed in across Them same plans with a lot of lean steers. Any stories? Yes, some; but Rol Daggett’s the boss Of all yarns that one anywhere hears— Rol was here when this camp wore its primeval gloss, And we roughed it together for years.

He was only a boy when he aimed to drive down From the Miami, in Forty-nine, And fall in with a train at some emigrant town He could purchase an outfit and join; But he ju-t took a hand at draw-poker for fun, On his way by the river-boat line, And he struck Independence with only his gun And a dollar ’n half in coin.

Most galoots would have weakened and crawfished right there; It was almighty binding, you’ll own; But the fluke never brought Rol the least bit of care Nor a thought that he shouldn’t push on: He bought bar-lead and powder and that sort of ware Till his dollar ’n -half was gone, And then shouldered his rifle and roached up his hair And pulled out on his journey alone. Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !48 I imagine it doesn’t seem much of a stretch When you’r snatched right along it by steam, But just try to realize spanning that patch By slow strikes with an emigrant team— On the hoof the whole day, half the night to stand watch, On and on as you creep in a dream— It would be the uncommonnest kind of a scratch If you hit upon how it would seem.

It was none of your junketing journeys on skates For those fully provided and bold And who made the riffle at last; but their fates Are no means the worst to be told; There’s many a fellow ‘twixt here and the States Whose detectable visions of gold Will never come true till the crystalline gates Of the heavenly city unfold.

But I’m scouring, a thing that should never be done In relating a straightforward tale: Rol erected his pompadour, shouldered his gun And pulled out by himself on the trail; And thus week in and over he kept pegging on With no comrade to hearken or hail, Steering straight through the wild for the lair of the sun With a pluckiness nothing could quail.

Game was plenty at times; he’d abundance to eat, And again there was none to be had, But he’d cinch up his belt till his heart could scarce beat, Like a gritty and sensible lad, Or rampse fearlessly into an Indian retreat— The red devils that season were bad, But they treated Rol kindly, and gave him dried meat, For they thought that the boy must be mad,

He didn’t see much of the endless array Of ox-teams, and kept off from the same, For he hadn’t a penny which he could pay And the emigrants frightened the game; He was wedded, besides, to his vagabond way. And considered their bullwhacking tame, So he kept right ahead on his own private lay And just let them flicker and flame—

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! !49 Only sighted or called them and gave them the go And kept forging ahead to the west, But he came upon one is s crisis whose woe Wouldn’t let him pass on like the rest: The cholera was dreadful that summer, you know, And the whole camp lay dead of the pest Save a brother and sister, of seven or so, And a babe at its dead mother’s breast.

Death is solemn enough in a civilized place Where affectionate kindred here nigh The poor moral remains to becomingly case And to tenderly close the dimmed eye; But it’s awful to see the unceremonied face Staring stonily up to the sky— If for nothing in life, pray to God for the grace Not to die as the animals die.

For the dead all assistance was valueless now, And the scene wasn’t tempting to stay, So Rol yoked together a bullock and cow— For the babe must be fed on the way— Hitched them onto the lightest though cumbersome scow,, Heaped it full of provisions and hay, Then, bestowing the children on top of the mow, He moved forward in solemn array.

Thus for many weeks more he pressed onward in haste With his caravan over the route, The two children did well and behaved to his taste, And the baby grew healthy and stout;— But a fortnight or so after Bridgers was passed The ox died and its yoke mate gave out, And Rol sat himself down in the desolate waste With his heart full of anguish and doubt.

Do you know what a desert is like? It’s a space Where a curse seems spread out like a blot— It’s an image of death and despair, save a trace Of past being or hope there is not— It’s a hell where prayers fail, for one feels that God’s face Never turned or will turn to the spot;— Now imagine yourself, if you can, in the place Of poor Rol and his terrible lot.

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! !50 It was not for himself that he felt at a loss, For he knew he could worry it through, As he’d but to abandon the children and toss O’er his shoulder his rifle anew; But the youngsters had won on the pitiful cuss Till he felt like a father thereto, And with mountains to climb yet and deserts to cross What on earth could them innocents do?

Hope is strong in young bosoms, but even hope dies When no promise of help is in sight; And Rol sank down disheartened and tries to devise What was best to be done in this plight, And the merciful stars looks in peace from the skies Ere he settled on what he thought right— ’Twas to wait till sweet slumber had curtained their eyes And then kill all the youngsters that night.

Wretch, ma’am? Why there wasn’t as much as a hair To be found among all on his head But became sympathetic and soft, as it were, At a word that was tenderly said; Not a cry for assistance arose anywhere But the lad, was the first help that sped;— If he’d had to abandon them innocents there, He had better abandon them dead.

Rol could curse more than pray, but he sort of half prayed To be shown some scape from his doom. Thought the kids fell asleep, he delayed and delayed— Until suddenly out of the gloom A huge object appeared of an inkier shade And continued to darken and loom And advance toward the spot where he cowered dismayed Till it stood within tangible room.

The lad’s nerves were like steel, but he felt his brain rock And a force at his heart clutch and pull, For he thought it the devil who’d come there to mock The petition he’d mumbled so dull, Or a messenger sent from the heavenly flock To rebuke what had entered his skull Either way, it was best he should sleep off the shock— But, lol daylight showed only a bull.

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! !51 Yes, a bull; not an ornery bellowing brute, But the kind a Europa would prize; A magnificent front, a hue blacker than soot And an amiable look in his eyes; He outmeasured the tongue of the wage a foot And was built in proportion to size, With as rounded a form and as shiny a coat As if pastured in Paradise.

He stood perfectly still to be lashed to the tongue, After which he just lighted out straight And, as if but a toy, snaked the outfit along O’er the sands at a galloping rate; He seemed somehow to know he must buckle in strong, For the season was getting on late, And so, week after week, without let up, he flung Himself loose as the same rushing gait.

He was kind to the kids from the moment they met As a cosset they’d known all their days; It was good as a circus to see them all get On his back and their merry shouts raise, And they cuddled all night by the side of their pet Who hot blood kept them warm as a blaze— But he never once drank, and he never once eat, And he hadn’t an animal’s way.

These singular qualities puzzled Rol some, But he wasn’t quite certain what trait To expect in a bull such a distance from home, So he just let the beat keep its gait And contented himself with appraising the sum It would bring as a price or by eight— Till at Sutter’s Fort, just as the winter had come, The bull landed the craft and its freight.

Not a mortal on earth ever saw that bull more From the time they corralled him that night The whole valley was scoured as clean as a floor But on never a trace could they light; And Rol said many times, as we reasoned it o’er, He believed, as he’d father in God’s might, That it wasn’t a bull but a spirit that wore The appearance of one to his sight.

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! !52 For if God—so he argued—would walk in the hugh Of the Garden to spy with squint lids, Would appear as a cloud or as flame in a bush, Plague the land of the pyramids And commission archangels to pilot the rush Of the old filibustering cids, It’s fair to suppose that he might make a push To deliver three innocent kids.

And the children? Oh, yes, ma’am, I had nearly forgot, They remembered the place they were from And the first stake Rol made here he shipped the whole lot, Babe and all, to their people back home; As for him, for a long while he drifted about, Mostly busted but not on the bum; We were parts for a year or so; chums in and out, And he then went away as he’d come.

He is camping this side of eternity yet, But alas he is old and grows stout; He’s been a rancher, has edited papers a bit, Was a Member of Congress one bout, Held the Ministership in Hawaii, and writ Some good books—there his record gives out; But I’m betting that some day the Lord will see fit For his sake to repeat that first scout.

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! !53 COUSIN JACK, c.1895 Anon. The Cornish miner often went to the mine boss and said, if you need a good man I’ve got a cousin, Jack, back in Cornwall. The Cornish were known for the their mining skills, their pasties and their singing.

You ask me for a song, folks, and I’ll try to please you all, Don’t blame me if I do not suit, for nature has its call.

But for singing and for mining, they have somehow got the knack, It’s a second nature to that class of lads called Cousin Jacks.

You’ll find them on the mountain top, you’ll find them on the plains; You’ll find those boys where’er you go, and you’ll find their mining claims.

They come from distant Tombstone and Virginia on the Hill. You ne’er can beat a Cousin Jack for hammering on the drill.

Amongst you other Irishmen do justice if you can, For there’s none that can compete with the good old Cornishman.

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! !54 SOUTHERN KLONDIKE, 1900 Bar Frances and John Nay, Tonopah ...the boys were camping and doing their work (at the diggings.) And they were having... (to) make the best of things and trying to amuse themselves. And Joe Nay was quite a singer. And Bar Frances was another good singer. And so they made up this song and tried to describe their trials and tribulations that was going on there. And so...they made up this song...and they called it “Southern Klondike.” Eventually...it went around the country and up around Belmont and amongst all of us young people. It was a popular song. And we danced to it. We danced all kinds of dances to it—two steps and polkas and everything else.

In the Montezuma Valley, a place you’ve all heard tell, There’s a group of quartz location discovered by Corts and Bell. They made it Southern Klondike and we think they’ve named it right For every one that’s seen those claims, they clear their altered sight.

It was a walk along the mountain on the way from a to z, And the things that bridge chloride, on the surface can you see. The place that we’ve been working is what we’ve named “the well.” It’s the nearest approach we’ve ever made to the hot place they call....

(First Chorus) Southern Klondike or the daisy You would set the devil crazy. And your weather’s always hazy Oh Southern Klondike. (spoken) How do you like it? (reply) What? What? Southern Klondike.

They had a little Dutchman, they named “the missing link.” He had hand toads in his whiskers, and his feet, how they could stink. He used to cook their beans, when they were doing in “the well”. How we ever managed to stomach them, I’m sure we could not tell.

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! !55 For his tea was full of soap suds. His dish towels stood alone. We used to eat his gravel plates, and go to bed and groan. He had a pitiful story, he used to tell the boys. Of how his brothers..?...enticed him off, from the state of Illinois.

(Second Chorus) To Southern Klondike on Sand Hill, Where he starved us to a stand still. And no matter go where we will. We’ll remember, God, the Dutchman who fed (us) on his soup made of water black and stinky, So no harm told Jack we’d drink it he was such a man of thinking. In Southern Klondike (spoken) How do you like it? (reply) What? Southern Klondike.

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! !56 THE FELLER I WAS SORRY FOR, 1901 Baker City, Oregon Though from Oregon, this poem deserves to be noted as a work of prospectors such as those in Nevada. The paper reported the words of the miner who came to the editor and gave his reasons for publication: Any poem that sacors of prospectors, whether it be about their rich strikes, their dreams, their everyday life—anything in fact that speaks in any way of the man behind the pick, is always read with interest,” says an old mining man, who had just returned from a trip in the mountains. “Why,” he continued, “I never go out on a trip but I invariably take along with me books, papers and scraps of poetry, all of them containing something about prospectors. And if you newspaper men knew how these same items about prospectors cheered the men, you would write even more than you do. Now here’s a poem that I picked up. Where? Oh, I’ve forgotten just where I did run across it; but I’ll bet you I’ve shown it to twenty men during my last trip. Here it is,” and he produced from a capacious pocket the follow, headed:

Campin’ up on the Feather Bar; Made a strike; and a ‘doby jar Full o’ nuggets, Jeemunee!— Purtiest sight that I ever see! Felt so good that I searched my jug Out’n the pack; an’ slung a chug Into my innards. Just as I Swallered it, here come ridin’ by Sorriest cuss that I ever see Ragged an’ lame, an’ he says, says he— “Lost my pile in the big washout Down on the Feather! Waterspout Tuck my wealth an’ my wife!” he says— Melted the heart of your Uncle Hez! Made me gulp an’ my old eyes blur!— Feller I was so sorry fur!

“Gimme a flapjack, pard! Says he, Coughin’ some ostentatiously, Pities him deep, so I cooks a spread— Bacon an’ beans an’ sour dough bread, Beds him down in a heap o’ stray— (The same I steals for my jackass) Saw Half o’ my whiskey down him, sir! Feller I was so sorry fur!

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! !57 Goes to sleep an’ I dream that I Takes my flight to the fur-off sky; Camps outside o’ the Golden Gate, ‘Lowin’ I’ll shorely have to wait; But riff! An’ the golden gate swings wide— “Pass!” says Peter; an’ durn my hide! Peter’s that same poor devil sir!— Feller I was so sorry fur! Woke up some a the break o’ day— Dad burn greaser had gone away! Mavericked all ‘o my jar o’ gold, All o’ my beans and bacon! Stoled Everything lose and hit the Pass, Ridin’ away on my ole jackass! Last that I see of the low-down cur— Feller I wuz so sorry fur!

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! !58 THE HIGHGRADER, c.1905 Anon., Goldfield Shoveling the ore into the ore cart, the mucker would carefully drop the high grade into his lunch box. Then, after work, he’d head for the assay office and supplement his salary. The bosses were not happy.

Way out in the State of the Nevada, In a mining camp far out of the way, A hobo, a Cripple Creek miner, Struck for a job there one day. He was a hell of a fine lookin’ fella, A gentleman, at once you could see. But he had a look in his face that said plainly, “Nearer, my God to Thee.”

The boys they all laughed when they saw him, And started to throw the bull con. For the book that they saw in his pocket, Was the gospel according to St. John. He gave us a sermon each Sunday, He taught us to pray and to kneel. He said, “Leave the high-grade for the company, ‘Cause only wicked men steal.”

He worked there just three months and ten days, Then he said, “Turn in my time,” He’d lent the boys most of his wages, So I said, “Here, pal, take some of mine.” When he answered, his eyes they were smiling, With that “Nearer, my God, to Thee” look. He said, “No, pard, now I’m trusting, In almighty God and this book.”

Well, the next morning I had the occasion To pick up his grip from the floor. Say, it’s a wonder I didn’t get ruptured; And God knows he might ha’ had more. Now he is bucking the tiger, And say, but I hope he will win, For he was a jolly good mucker, If he did take a piece for a pin.

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! !59 THE MINING ENGINEER’S SONG, 1909 Anon., Reno

I wish I had a barrel of rum, And sugar three hundred pounds, The college bell to mix it in, The clapper to stir it round. I’d drink to Mackay’s school of mines, And friends both far and near. I’m a rambling wreck from Reno Tech, And a mining engineer.

Come join my humble ditty, From the sagebrush state I steer, Like every honest fellow, I take my whiskey clear. Like every honest fellow, I take my whiskey clear, I’m a rambling wreck from Reno Tech, And a mining engineer.

O Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was black as jet. And everywhere that Mary went, The Billy goat went, you bet. He followed her to school one day, Which made her hot as fire, For Mary rode upon a bike, And Billy chewed the tire. Come join….

O Mary had a little man, More wealth than brains, you know, And everywhere that Mary went, That man was sure to go. He followed her to church one day, And there the two were twain. O he liked it for a little while, But he never smiled again. Come join….

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! !60 CASEY JONES, 1911 A Professor On The Piano, Venice Beach The miner drilled holes and put a stick of dynamite in each hole. It was important that each one explode lest he return to the mine and drill into a missed hole. The mucker shoveled the lose ore into the ore cart. During 1911, miners from central Nevada rested at Venice Beach in Los Angeles where this song was composed by a “professor” on the piano.

Come all you muckers and gather here, A story I’ll tell you of a miner dear. Casey Jones was the miner’s name, On a Burleigh machine he won his fame.

Casey Jones was a ten-day miner. Casey Jones was a ten-day man. Casey Jones took a chance too many. And now he’s mining in the Promised Land.

The story I am about to tell, Happened at a mine called the Liberty Bell. They went into the crosscut and mucked her out, And Casey said, “We’d better step about.”

Casey said, “We’d better dig in, Before that damned old shift boss comes in. If he finds out we’ve been taking five, He’ll send us to the office to get our time.”

They went into the crosscut, put up the bar, Placed the machine up on the arm. Put in a starting drill with its bit toward the ground, Turned on the air and she began to pound.

Casey said, “If I haven’t lied, There is a missed hole on the right hand side.” His partner said, “Oh gracious me, If it ever went off where would we be.”

They went into the crosscut to drill some more, The powder exploded with a hell of a roar. It scorched poor Casey just as flat as a pan, And now he’s a minin’ in the promised land.

Casey said just before he died, “There’s one more machine I would like to have tried.” His partner said, “What can it be?” “An Ingersoll jackhammer, now don’t you see.

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! !61 THE GIRL OF THE SAGEBRUSH STATE, 1914 Clara E. McClelland, Goldfield David Belasco’s 1905 Broadway show, “The Girl Of The Golden West” swept the nation as a play and then an opera, creating an image of the western girl. Here is a Nevada take on the topic.

Way out in Nevada State, You’ll be sure to meet your fate, They say she may not be fair, But she is always on the square, The girl of the Sagebrush State. She’s most always blithe and merry, And sometimes she is quite contrary, Can do many a good deed When she sees a man in need. The girl of the Sagebrush State.

I will shout and sing ‘Bravado!” For the girl of old Nevada, The girl of the Sagebrush State, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

A girl who can swiftly ride, O’er desert and mountain side, And whenever she sees the game She is steady in her aim, The girl of the Sagebrush State. She is capable as a cook, With mentality to write a book, They say she has no knowledge, But then she’s finished college, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

She may not be so pretty, But she’s strong and quite witty, And she can really dance and sing With the grace to please a king, The girl of the Sagebrush State. A girl that need never wait, So do not ever go too late, Don’t be tardy in wooing, For she is up and doing, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

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! !62 THE LAST TRIP, 1917 J.C.R, Jarbidge The Elko Daily Independent received this submission. The Jarbidge Stage Robbery proved to be the last stage robbery in the Old West. On December 5, 1916, the driver of a small two horse-driven mail wagon was ambushed as he was riding to the town of Jarbidge, Nevada. The driver was killed and $4,000 was stolen, however, three suspects were arrested shortly afterward, including a horse thief named Ben Kuhl. Kuhl became the first murderer in American history to be convicted and sent to prison by the use of palm print evidence. The stolen $4,000 was never recovered and is said to be buried somewhere in Jarbidge Canyon.

The Independent wrote: The following came to us from Jarbidge. It will be remember that Fred Searey was the stage driver who was shot and killed last December when the mail stage was held up.

The Sage speeds down Toward Jarbidge town— The Driver, his heart is light; In the iron rack Lies the money-sack, With the mail secure and tight, And he feels content And confident That he’ll land it in town this night.

The road is rough, And the going is tough Through the hills that are cold and bare, But he feels like one With work well done, And is glad he will soon be there; And thoughtlessly He fails to see The treacherous, hidden snare.

Foul Murder’s head, Rears up so red, Behind her hideth Greed; The crack of a gun, And the deed is done— A soul from a body freed. And thieves with ease The booty seize And vanish with lightning speed.

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! !63 And the murdered Boy, The pride and joy Of his Mother, as we all know, Has paid the price To Avarice— His life-blood stains the snow. And the night-wind stirs In the pines and firs And sobs at the sight below.

The hills low down And darkly frown On that gruesome piteous sight— For they feel the breath Of the Angel Death, And they hear her footstep light In the twilight dim As she comes to him And bears him into the night.

Farewell, Old Pal So genial— So faithful, tried and true— We will hope and pray When comes the day In which we are summoned, too, At our post we’ll be Found steadfastly, As staught to our trust as you.

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! !64 THE CALL OF THE AMBULANCE, 1917 Helen R. Grigsby, Tonopah July 21, 1917, The Butler Theater Orchestra performed this song at the Richard Mercantile Building. The Tonopah Ambulance Regiment began to pass around small metal ambulance-shaped banks through local High School students. The effort ultimately purchased an ambulance for the war effort in France. The music proved effective. The Regiment’s leader, flag designer, mixer of “TAR punch” and wife of a local physician, Mrs. Helen R. Grigsby wrote,“The Call Of The Ambulance”. It was set to music. Mrs. Arthur Neth sang it for the first time publicly on August 20. September saw composition of a poem, “The Song of the Ambulance,” followed by a play and more poems. On October 20, 250 children sang “The Call Of The Ambulance” at the Airdrome.

From the hills of old Nevada Where the silver bullion grows, Comes this ambulance to succor Those sore wounded by our foes. On our banner waves our motto, ‘This to Know To Will, To Dare, Therefore thru the thickest fighting We will give our soldiers care.

Hurry up, hurry up To the poor wounded man, Yes we are coming, Yes we are coming Just as fast as we can; When you hear the toot of that big auto car, You’ll know ‘tis our ambulance, from Tonopah.

Don’t you hear our engines chugging? Don’t you see our colors wave? Bringing comfort to the wounded To the soldier grand and brave. And above us waves Old Glory, Bidding us to keep it there And we bow our heads in silence For our fathers loving care.

And when the war is over And the awful debt is paid, We shall love our boys so dearly For the sacrifice they made. And we know our land shall blossom, Like a garden after rain Because of that closer brotherhood Which humanity shall gain.

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! !65 THE DESERT RAT, 1919 Ralph Garnier Coole, Tonopah Around 1919, the Model T ended the era of men who spent months out there with their shovels and poetry, the desert rats.

Tonopah’s some lively, son, Boomin’ shore enough. Strikin’ pay dirt every day, Durn good lookin’ stuff. Camp’s plumb full o’tenderfeet; Plenty sourdoughs, too; Some with pokes cram full o’dust, Some without a sou.

Dancin’ girls with dreamy eyes; Makes my heart grow young. Heard one sing a song tonight; One I ain’t heard sung Since I hit these diggin’s Years an’ years ago— Heard the music sobbin-like— Sobbin’ soft an’ low.

I was just a youngster then, Careless, wild an’ free; Might a been a millionaire— But—spent it! That was me. She had hair just like the gold, Shinin’ fair an’ long— Funny how it all came back, Listenin’ to that song!

Life was young an’ so was I— Then—there came a day! He was sleek an’ handsome— An’—well, she went away! Many, many moons, son, Since I heard that song— Got a prospect in the hills— Guess I’ll move along.

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! !66 SONG OF THE DEATH VALLEY PROSPECTORS, 1919 Frank Crampton, Death Valley

Frank Crampton wrote of the last meeting for many of the desert rats, Death Valley, 1919. Though not from Nevada, the song chronicles the end to the culture of prospectors going out there. He wrote: The last verses were made up by a large group, all of use prospectors, desert rats, and hard-rock stiffs, at the almost deserted camp of Greenwater in the fall of 1919, when most of the group got together. It was t be the last reunion for most of us, although we did not know it at the time.…The few verses that I do remember, however, reveal the depth of feeling against the hardships each old timer faced, and shared sometimes with another of his kind, on the desert, but which were accepted without comment or complaint as part of the chosen life. Other than in verses of this song, I have never heard hardships mentioned by any of the old timers excepting as something to joke and laugh about, because what they did and what happened to them was commonplace. Had the old timers, prospectors, and desert rats not had to fight for everything that they got, and then fight to keep what they had found and to make it worth while, they would have called it “deep enough” and let someone else take on the job. To them nothing was worth while unless it was earned the hard way.

We’ve roamed the hills and made new trails, Our burros by our side; We’ve looked for gold, but ain’t found none Old Timer don’t you cry.

Oh! Oh! You desert rats, Don’t you cry no more; We’ve almost reached the Golden Gate, Our old pals waiting there.

We few are left, the most are gone Up on to Heaven’s shore; And soon we’ll be within the gates Old Timer don’t you cry.

There’s water there, the sun don’t burn, The hills are low, not steep; And sand don’t choke your breath away, Old Timer don’t you cry.

The wind don’t blow, the rain don’t rain, The trails ain’t got no rocks; The weather’s mild, just as you like, Old Timer don’t you cry.

No need to hobble Johnny now, Or look for him all day; The grass is green and not burned up, Old Timer don’t you cry.

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! !67 The steel don’t dull, no need to muck, No real work more to do; The Lord is there awaiting too, Old Timer don’t you cry.

The gulches all are water filled, And gold dust by the pan; The next round shot will blast her in, Old Timer don’t you cry.

So down the drink and make a toast To all who still are here; Another one to pals now gone, Old Timer don’t you cry.

They’re waiting there with burros packed, With cinches right and fast; I’ll join them now, and wait for you, Old Timer don’t you cry.

Our pals are waiting patiently, The jacks are reared to go; I’m going no, good-by old pals, I’ll wait up there for you.

My last shift’s in, I’m on my way, I’ll wait until you come; And start again to look for gold, Old Timer don’t you cry.

You won’t have long to wait no more, Maybe a year or two; And sing again as now we do, Old Timer don’t you cry.

So tap her light until you come, And when it’s deep enough; Just load her light and tamp her soft, Old Timer don’t you cry.

And when we all have reached those gate, Our pals awaiting there; We’ll roam again on golden trails, Old Timer don’t you cry.

Oh! Oh! You desert rats I’ve landed straight up here, The boys all say to hurry up, They’re waiting here for you.

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! !68 HARD ROCK DANN, 1925 Henry McNamara, Reno After 1919, the era of prospectors had gone and a great nostalgia occurred.

The sun was setting in the West, One evening late in May, While on the burning desert sand, Two fortune-hunters lay.

Their pack was scattered on the ground, While the burro seemed to beg But the thing their eyes were centered on Was the empty water keg.

The first to speak, with voice made weak, From travel, thirst and cramp, Was Hot Water Dan, a hard-rock man, From Nevada’s greatest camp.

It seems, says he, twixt you and me, That life’s great jig is up: From Dawson’s slush, to Bisbee’s bush, I’ve drunk a bitter cup.

So, I bury the pick and the prospect pan, And leave forever the haunts of man. His voice was hushed by a mighty sound: The burro was rolling on the ground.

A kick, a plunge, a staggering fall. The burro was gone beyond recall. The silence is broken by Stuttering Jack, Who, for years, has followed the prospect lack.

Whose fiery eyes and heated breath, Tells him he faces a desert death. “Goodbye, old Comstock, with your mighty hills, Good-bye, old Bodie, and Carson river mills.

“Goodbye to long eared jacks, “Hot water, mines and prospect packs; I’m going now, where gold will bring no joy, Goodbye, Dan, goodbye, old boy.”

And they fell asleep in the desert’s gloom, Under the gaze of a smiling moon. After many months the bones are found, Bleached and white upon the ground,

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! !69 By Chapperal Joe, from New Mexico, A northbound trapping Navajo, And finding a message on the pack To the haunts of man, he brought it back:

“Take me back to old Comstock, And bury me under bonanza rock. And on my tomb, place ‘Hard Rock Dan, A roving Western Mining Man.”

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! !70 BACKIN JIM, 1927 E. Isabelle McClelland Hansen, Fallon The new lore was increasingly of the ranch and of cowboys or buckaroos. They now represented the far West’s search to live wild and free. The Nevada Federation of Women's Clubs published this and other rhymes in Nevada Poems, 1927, a book dedicated to the pioneers.

I’ve been lisenin’ to you wimmen All a-sayin’ what you think Of the good and bad of livin’ Up here on the Carson Sink. But I know as I’ve set thinkin’ Of the children an’ of him, That to me the place don’t matter— I’m out here backin Jim.

For he thinks in this new country There’s a chance to get ahead; He was sick of havin bosses An’ of huntin’ jobs, he said. So we’re out here on a homestead Clearin’ sagebrush with a vim, An’ I’m cookin’ beans and bacon In the desert, backin’ Jim.

Sometimes when I look around me An’ see miles of brush and sand, It is hard to think that someday This will be a fruitful land; Then I ketch the sight of ditches, Full of water to the brim, An’ I think: “who knows?” It may be. An’ I stay, a-backin’ Jim.

Yes, I’m backin’ Jim. The landscape Ain’t no matter, for he sees While he’s workin’ diggin ‘ ditches All the valley green with trees, Miles and miles of fragrant pasture Stretchin’ to the purple rim Where the clouds rest on the hilltops, Bringin’ visions to my Jim.

So I try to see with his eyes, Men can look ahead an’ plan, To a woman waitin it’s harder For she ain’t built like a man; When the restless sand goes flyin’ On the wind, I smile at Jim, Sweep it out an don’t say nothin’ Hatin to discourage him. Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !71 When I tire of breakin’ water, Or of cookin’ or of hills, I go outdoors in the sunshine Where my eyes can see the hills; For I find a comfort in them Like the psalmist in the hymn, An’ it cheers me up an’ rests me, Keeps my heart up, backin’ Jim.

Out of school time, plantin’ wind breaks Tanned and healthy, blithe of heart, Both the boys do chores a whistlin’, Each one glad to do his part. When we have these broad fat acres Planted out in payin’ trim No more jobs an’ no more bosses In Nevada, backin’ Jim.

Yes, it’s hard upon us wimmen, For we are the pioneers, But I think we’d all feel better If we could look down the years. There’s a future for the country Where men work with faith and vim, An’ I seem to feel it comin’ Workin’ here a-backin’ Jim.

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! !72 WAGON TRAMPS ON THE CARSON SINK, 1927 George W. Davison “Tramps” appears to describe those still wandering the desert, much like the term “desert rat,” though perhaps reflecting slang from the late 1920s.

Yes, we’ve had our tryout, stranger, campin’—starvin’ half the while Not a neighbor within range, sir, ‘round us nigh for twenty mile. That’s why all of us look ailin’—no, its not the ornery ills— We’re all a droopin’, palin—dyin’ homesick for the hills.

It’s a fact! My family there, sir, we’ve been roamin’ round the Sink Out where waterholes is scarcer big enough for one sized drink. Not a hill to make a showin’—white, an level as your hand! Nor a tree no higher growin’ than a sagebrush in the sand.

Just a trampin’—an a dreamin’ of the hills we uster know, Where the streams was glancin’ gleamin’ thru the Redwoods’ shade below, And our cabin, where t’was lyin’ as we left it, all alone. And the winds a sadly sighin’ round it, since that we’ve been gone.

And sometimes—just like mist appearin’ on the desert, we have seen That cabin in the clearin’ and the ranges fresh and green; And the trees a wavin’—seemin’ like we seen them in the past— It was hard to b’lieve ’twas dreamin’ and we wasn’t home at last!

Tell yer, when a man’s been used her hills and streams and woods and rains He’s a sick a done-up rooster out there on them sunburnt plains! He just wants to keep a trampin’—then ain’t satisfied to roam! Never finds the place he’s campin’ on, feels like he was at home.

Ever tried it, stranger—never! Well, I won’t advise you to! It’s the durndest ailment ever sufferin’ mortal was put through! ‘Taint them every-day off feelin’s, likes they cure with herbs and pills; You’re outside a doctor’s heaven’s, when you’re homesick for the hills.

But we’re goin’ home—we’re closer, creepin’ closer every day. Think we’ll tramp next season? No, sir! Not if I can have a say! Trampin’ might suit some folks likin’—full of “romance” and such frills. But we’ve tried it—and we’re hikin’ back to old Sonoma’s hills.

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! !73 US OLD BOYS ON BOULDER DAM, 1931 Claude Rader, Boulder

There are thousands we know that knock it, And holler, that they are cheap But to us, it brings no worry Not a moment’s loss of sleep, For, we’ve been here since it started We’re used to all the slam And we’re stickin’ to the finish Us old boys on Boulder Dam

And the fallin’ rocks can’t scare us Nor the scorchin’ rays of the sun We’ve rode the rods and brakebeams Ragged and on the bum And they gave us jobs and fed us When we needed it you bet And we all are truly thankful With no feelin’ of regreat So we’re stickin’ till the finish There’s me and Ike and Same And we’re getting fat and stakie Us old boys on Boulder Dam

Abe Lincoln freed the negroes, And old Nero he burned Rome But the Big Six helped depression When they gave the stiff a home In a nice bunk house there sleepin’ There workin’ every day. The hungry look has vanished For they get three squares a day You’ll find tall Lous from Kal-a-ma-zoo And Slim from Alabam Mixed in with all the rest of us Old boys on Boulder Dam.

“Oh” that bacon and for breakfast With those new moan eggs I’ll say You get down at river camp Sure we get ‘em ever’ day, And ice-cream, cake and puddin’ Pork-chops at two-bits a pound Fresh milk from contented cows And hot-cakes a golden brown Fresh meat cooked fit to eat Brush and butter, jam Flunkies dress in snowy white, For us old boys on Boulder Dam. Visit: nevadamusic.com

! !74 And the rain may come a pourin’ With sleet and flaky snow. But we’ll dam the Colorado Says our Super “Hurry Up” Crowe And us stiff, is goin’ to help him ‘Till she’s solid and complete While they pay us honest wages With a place to sleep and eat And down here in Black Canyon You’ll find us ever’ day Where the silvery Colorado Slowly wends it’s way. Contented and all happy As a peaceful rovin lamb And we’re stickin’ to the finish Us old boys, on Boulder Dam.

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! !75 HOME MEANS NEVADA, 1932 Bertha Raffetto, Reno The official state song of Nevada, “Home Means Nevada” came after several years effort by Raffeto. She had been asked to play for the Nevada Native Daughters, but had mislaid the date until noticing it a day prior. This lead to a feverish night before her performance at Bowers Mansion in Washoe Valley, during the summer of 1932. At the event, upon hearing it, several state leaders asked that “Home Means Nevada” be submitted to the Legislature.

Way out in the land of the setting sun, Where the wind blows wild and free, There’s a lovely spot, just the only one That means home sweet home to me. If you follow the old Kit Carson trail, Until desert meets the hills, Oh you certainly will agree with me, It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills, Home means the sage and the pine. Out by the Truckee, silvery rills, Out where the sun always shines, Here is the land which I love the best, Fairer than all I can see. Deep in the heart of the golden west Home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of day, Colors all the western sky, Oh my heart returns to the desert grey And the mountains tow’ring high. Where the moon beams play in shadowed glen, With the spotted fawn and doe, All the live long night until morning light, Is the loveliest place I know.

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! !76 IN MEMORIUM TO WHISKEY PETE, 1934 Anon., Las Vegas In Collaboration by “Pete’s” Honorary Pallbearers

He was just a long, lean Texas Gink, Who ran a joint at the edge of a sink, By the old state-line where the lizards wink.

He cursed and he swore, he was steeped in sin, And his mildest drink was Holland Gin. He fought with his friends and foe’s alike, He pistoled them up and down the pike.

He bragged and he blowed like a North Sea-whale, And a lie to tell he would never fail.

The beer that he made was a lousy brew, It would lay you out in a terrible stew. From oil drum vats to his dirty jugs, It was good for a fight with every slug.

On his whiskey too, you could always sail, For it was known as “Pete’s Third Rail,” Oh, his rye and gin, “I’m telling you pards,” Had a perfume rare, like the old stockyards.”

The damsels fair, both young and old, To “Whiskey Pete” their bodies sold. He played them fast and loose and fine, And never drew the color line.

But he drank his own booze and no more he’ll shoot, The high heels off a puncher’s boot. He played his game and he went the route, St. Peter said, “Three Strikes, You’re Out.”

So we’ve dug him down with a fare-you-well, A six-foot hole on the road to hell. The devil growled and said, with a shout, “Bar the gates, or he’ll run me out.”

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RHYMES FROM THE SILVER STATE Unacceptable lyrics old and new

THAT COWBOY CAFÉ Around the campfire with tramps, hobos and desert rats

COYOTE AND HIS FRIENDS Songs to sing with kids

TRUCK TRAIN THROUGH THE SAND The 1919 transcontinental motor convoy as it came through Carson City

DREAMING UP NEVADA TERRITORY The story of William Ormsby

PROFIT, PLOTS & LYNCHING The creation of Nevada Territory

THE STRYCHNINE BANJO Jake Wallace, Charley Rhoades and “The Days of ‘49”

THE CELTIC HARP AT STONEHENGE The structure of ancient British and Celtic learning

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! !78