These are the lyrics to two of the best-known songs written by Mac McClintock, a performer on KFRC in the 1920's who later went on to national fame.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
There's a land that's fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out ev'ry night
Where the boxcars are all empty
And the sun shines ev'ry day
Oh, I'm bound to go where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And little streams of lemonade
Come a-tricklin' down the rocks
The hobos there are friendly
And their fires all burn bright
There's a lake of stew ...and soda, too
You can paddle all around 'em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
Come all ye jolly jokers now listen while I hum
A story I relate to you of the great American bum.
East and west and north and south like a swarm of bees they come,
they lay in the dirt and wear a shirt that's dirty and full of crumbs.
Now lady would you be kind enough to give me something to eat?
A piece of bread and butter or a ten-foot slice of meat.
A piece of pie or a custard to tickle me under the tight.
For I'm so bloody hungry and I don't know where to sleep tonight.
It's early in the morning when the dew is on the ground.
The bum arises from his nest and gazes all around,
from the boxcar and the haystack, he gazes everywhere,
and never goes back upon his track until he gets somewhere.
I've travelled East, I've travelled West, I've been in every state,
a member of the nights of rest, with dues paid up to date.
There are two things that I despise, two things I always shirk,
the first thing is a cake of soap, the other one is work.
Now I beat my way from Frisco Bay to the rock-bound coast of Maine,
from Canada to Mexico and right back home again.
I've cut the spruce and worked the sluice and taken my turn at the plow.
I've dug for gold in the rain and the cold and worked on a river scow.
Oh we jolly old bums, we jolly old bums
We live like royal Turks
We have good luck at bummin' our chuck
and to heck with the man that works.
I've met some bulls, some hardened bulls
as tough as a cop can be,
and I've been in every calaboose
in this land of liberty.
Now I met a man the other day I never had met before
He asked me if I wanted a job a-shoveling iron ore
I asked him what the wages was and he said, "ten cents a ton"
I said "Old fellow, go chase yourself, I'd rather be on the bum.
As I was sleeping in the shade just to pass the time away
A man he came to me and he said, "You want to shovel some hay?"
He said his land is rollin', I said, "If that is true
Just roll it around to a shady spot and I'll see what I can do."
Oh ogee ogee ogee, all we have to do
Is sleeping in the station, that's the way we do
Oh sleeping in the station, that's a recommendation
Haree harah harum.
Oh we jolly old bums, we jolly old bums
We live like royal Turks
We have good luck at bummin' our chuck
and to heck with the man that works.