1

The roundhouse in Cheyenne is filled every night,
With loafers and bummers of most ev'ry plight,
On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills,
Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills.

Chorus:
Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city they call it Cheyenne,
Where the blue waters roll, and Comanche Bills,
They will lift up your hair, on the dreary Black Hills.

2

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.

3

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.

Last Chorus:
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.