Classic Poem

Now friends if you'll listen to a horrible tale,
It's getting quite dreary and it's getting quite stale,
I gave up my trade selling Ayers' Patent Pills
To go and hunt gold in the dreary Black Hills.

Stay away, I say, stay away if you can
Far from that city they call Cheyenne,
Where the blue waters roll and Comanche Bill
Will take off your scalp, boys, in those dreary Black Hills.

Now, friends, if you'll listen to a story untold
Don't go to the Black Hills a-digging for gold;
For the railroad speculators their pockets will fill,
While taking you a round trip to the dreary Black Hills.

I went to the Black Hills, no gold could I find.
I thought of the free land I'd left far behind;
Through rain, snow, and hail, boys, froze up to the gills,
They called me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.

The roundhouse at Cheyenne is filled every night
With loafers and beggars of every kind of sight;
On their backs there's no clothes, boys, in their pockets no bills.
And they'll take off your scalp in those dreary Black Hills.