Michael Conway Solas
(Capo on II)
Oh my [G]name is Michael C[G/B]onway, in old[Em] Ireland I was [C]born
Near the[G] lake of Cloonac[G/B]olly on a br[C]ight summer's m[D]orn
But s[G]oon came cruel [C]winter to br[G/B]eak and scatter my poor h[C]ome
Soo[G]n came the h[C]arsh [G]day that f[D]orced me to r[G]oam.
Well I [G]reached old Philade[G/B]lphia in the br[Em]ave land of the f[C]ree
Where I [G]met with my two br[G/B]others; There was P[C]at, James, and m[D]e
We were[G] destined for the [C]rich land fate o[G/B]wes us all from bi[C]rth
We were b[G]ound for Butte, [C]Monta[G]na, the ri[D]chest hill on e[G]arth
Where their [C]pockets they bulge h[C]eavy, when cop[G]per's running hi[G]gh
Where the [C]hill rewards her br[C]ave sons, it's for[Em]tune or d[D]ie
Where they [G]tread on silver d[G/B]ollars on the cr[Em]owded barroom fl[C]oor
While they s[G]trip the granite m[C]ount[G]ain of her pr[D]ecious copper o[G]re.
Well we l[G]eaped down off that st[G/B]eam train, and stepped[Em] out into the yellow
mi[C]st
With ho[G]les still in our he[G/B]arts then, and a fi[C]ght in either f[D]ist
No kind [G]face to le[C]ad us up to where the d[G/B]irty smelter s[C]pat
And it's [G]there I took to hard l[C]ab[G]or as a Bu[D]tte mining r[G]at
Where we [C]trade the hours of [C]daylight for the sm[G]ell of copper o[G]re,
Where it's [C]whiskey and the c[C]ow pats to cure[Em] our copper s[D]ores
Where h[G]alf the town it l[G/B]abors while the ot[Em]her half it sl[C]eeps
Where [G]upon the granite m[C]ount[G]ain, a m[D]ile high and d[G]eep.
(Break--same as chorus)
Oh they [G]know me down in Do[G/B]gtown, bare kn[Em]uckle I would g[C]o
For t[G]here's not a man could [G/B]best me while st[C]anding toe to [D]toe
But I d[G]efied the crooked sh[C]eriff, for I w[G/B]ouldn't throw his fight a[C]way
He sh[G]ould have laid it on at 5[C] to [G]2, and ba[D]cked the bold Co[G]nway
I was[G] lifted in Con[G/B] Peoples, with the [Em]beer and music flowing f[C]ree
Where my[G] brothers had just l[G/B]eft me, Oh bad for[C]tune for m[D]e
Dragged[G] out by crooked c[C]owards, their b[G/B]atons knocked me off my [C]feet
And the[G]y left me to d[C]ie th[G]ere, like a d[D]og in the st[G]reet.
Far f[C]rom the Ana[C]conda, the mi[G]ne with seven s[G]tacks
Far f[C]rom the ashen f[C]aces of youn[Em]g men with crooked ba[D]cks
Far f[G]rom the grani[G/B]te mountain and the dus[Em]ty grave in which I [C]lie
My [G]spirit chases st[C]arl[G]ings 'round a c[D]lear Mayo s[G]ky.
(outro) C G D G
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