I came from Salem City,
With my washbowl on my knee.
I'm going to California
The gold dust for to see.
It rained all night the day I left,
The weather it was dry,
The sun so hot I froze to death-
Oh, brothers, don't you cry!

Oh, California,
That's the land for me!
I'm bound for San Francisco
With my washbowl on my knee!

I jumped aboard the 'Liza ship
And traveled on the sea,
And every time I thought of home
I wished it wasn't me!
The vessel reared like any horse
That had of oats a wealth;
I found it wouldn't throw me, so
I thought I'd throw myself!

I thought of all the pleasant time
We've had together here,
I thought I ought to cry a bit,
But couldn't find a tear.
The pilot bread was in my mouth,
The gold dust in my eye,
And though I'm going far away,
Dear brothers, don't you cry!

I soon shall be in 'Frisco,
And there I shall look around,
And when I see the gold lumps there
I'll pick them off the ground.
I'll scrape the mountains clean, my boys,
I'll drain the rivers dry,
A pocketful of rocks bring home-
So, brothers, don't you cry!

From An American Sailor's Treasury by Frank Shay (1991)