In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine,
Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter Clementine.

Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin' Clementine,
Oh my darlin' Clementine.

Fair she was and like a fairy, and her shoes were number nine,
Herring boxes without topses sandals were for Clementine.

Drove she ducks into the water every morning just at nine,
Struck her foot against a splinter, fell into the foaming brine.

Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine,
But, alas, I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine.

How I missed her, how I missed her, how I missed my Clementine,
Then I kissed her little sister and forgot my Clementine.

In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments dripping brine,
Then I kissed her little sister and forgot my Clementine.

In a churchyard in a canyon, where the myrtle doth entwine,
Grow some roses and some posies fertilized by Clementine.

Then the miner, forty-niner, soon began to peak and pine,
Thought he oughta join his daughter; now he's with his Clementine.

Now ye boy scouts heed the warning of this dreadful tale of mine:
Artificial respiration would have saved my Clementine.

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