He driv that stage for many a year
Along the Smokey Hill,
And a pile o' wild Comanches
Did Bill Peters have to kill,—
And I reckon if he'd had good luck
He'd been a drivin' still.
But he chanced one day to run agin
A bullet made o' lead,
Which was harder than he bargained for
And now poor Bill is dead;
And when they brung his body home
A barrel of tears was shed.
Come listen a while and I'll sing you a song
Concerning the times—it will not be long—
When everybody is striving to buy,
And cheating each other, I cannot tell why,—
And it's hard, hard times.
From father to mother, from sister to brother,
From cousin to cousin, they're cheating each other.
Since cheating has grown to be so much the fashion,
I believe to my soul it will run the whole Nation,—
And it's hard, hard times.
Now there is the talker, by talking he eats,
And so does the butcher by killing his meats.
He'll toss the steelyards, and weigh it right down,
And swear it's just right if it lacks forty pounds,—
And it's hard, hard times.
And there is the merchant, as honest, we're told.
Whatever he sells you, my friend, you are sold;
Believe what I tell you, and don't be surprised
To find yourself cheated half out of your eyes,—
And it's hard, hard times.
And there is the lawyer you plainly will see,
He will plead your case for a very large fee,
He'll law you and tell you the wrong side is right,
And make you believe that a black horse is white,—
And it's hard, hard times.
And there is the doctor, I like to forgot,
I believe to my soul he's the worst of the lot;
He'll tell you he'll cure you for half you possess,
And when you're buried he'll take all the rest,—
And it's hard, hard times.
And there's the old bachelor, all hated with scorn,
He's like an old garment all tattered and torn,
The girls and the widows all toss him a sigh,
And think it quite right, and so do I,—
And it's hard, hard times.