Tom: D major•
Intro 1
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Verse 1
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Kind friends, you must listen
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to my sorry tale
I'm an object of pity,
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I give up my trade,
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selling rights, patent pills
To go searchin' for gold
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on the dreary black hills.
I got to Wyoming,
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no gold could I find.
I thought of the lunch route
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Through rain, hail, and snow,
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froze plumb to the gills.
They call me the orphan
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of the dreary Black Hill.
The roundhouse in Cheyenne
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is filled every night
With loafers and bummers
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On their backs is no clothes,
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in their pockets no bills.
Each day they keep startin'
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for the dreary black hills.
Oh, don't go away.
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Stay at home if you can.
Stay away from that city
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Railroad speculators,
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their pockets you'll fill
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on the dreary black hill.
Outro 1
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