They took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair; There was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air; There was a fair form among them, a girl from Saginaw town. Whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down. Fair Clara was a noble girl, the river-man's true friend; She and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend; And the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay, But the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day. They buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of May; Come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray. Engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow Is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young Monroe. Fair Clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief; And less than three months afterwards Death came to her relief; And when the time had come and she was called to go, Her last request was granted, to be laid by young Monroe. Come all you brave young shanty boys, I'd have you call and see Two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree; The shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,-- 'Tis the handsome Clara Vernon and her true love, Jack Monroe. THE DREARY BLACK HILLS Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale, I am an object of pity, I am looking quite stale, I gave up my trade selling Right's Patent Pills To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills. Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For big Walipe or Comanche Bills They will lift up your hair on the dreary Black Hills. The round-house in Cheyenne is filled every night With loafers and bummers of most every plight; On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills, Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills. I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find, I thought of the lunch route I'd left far behind; Through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,-- They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills. Kind friend, to conclude, my advice I'll unfold, Don't go to the Black Hills a-hunting for gold; Railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill By taking a trip to those dreary Black Hills. Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bills They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills. The Dreary Black Hills (Mus. Not.) Kind friends, you must pit-y my hor-ri-ble tale, I'm an ob-ject of pit-y, I'm look-ing quite stale; I gave up my trade, Selling Right's Pat-ent Pills, To go hunt-ing gold In the drear-y Black Hills. REFRAIN Don't go a-way, stay at home if you can; Stay a-way from that cit-y they call it Chey-enne; For big Wal-i-pee or Co-man-che Bills, They will lift up your hair On the drear-y Black Hills. A MORMON SONG