George Collins- McKinney (NC) 1914 Sharp C
[My title. From English Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians; 1917 Comprising 122 Songs and Ballads, and 323 Tunes; Collected by Olive Dame Campbell and Cecil J. Sharp. His notes follow. This was not collected by Sharp since he began collecting in 1916.
R. Matteson 2012, 2015]
Sharp's notes for No. 22. Giles Collins:
Texts without tunes :—Child, No. 85.
Texts with tunes :—Miss Mason's Nursery Rhymes and Country Songs, p. 46. Journal of the Folk-Song Society, III., 299.
In a note (Journal of the Folk-Song Society, IV, 106), Miss Barbara M. Cra'ster argues that this ballad and Clerk Colvill are complementary or, rather, that they are both descended from a more complete form such as that given in Journal of the Folk-Song Society, iii., 299. In the usual form in which Giles Collins is sung (e.g. the versions given in the text), no reason is given for Giles’s death, and this, of course, robs the song of its point. This omission is supplied in the version above cited, but so far has not been found in any other variant.
George Collins- McKinney (NC) 1914 Sharp C
1. George Collins came home last Wednesday night,
And there took sick and died;
And when Mrs. Collins heard George was dead,
She bowed her head and died.
2 His own little bride was in the hall,
Sewing her silk so fine,
And she heard that George was dead,
She threw it all aside.
3 She followed him up, she followed him down,
She followed him to his grave,
And there upon her bended knees,
She wept, she mourned, she prayed.
4 O daughter, O daughter, the mother then said,
There is more young men than George;
There is more young men standing round
To hear you weep and mourn.
5 O mother, O mother, the daughter then said,
There is more young men than George;
There is more young men standing round,
But none so dear as he.
6 Sit down the casket, take off the lid,
Fold back the sheets so fine,
And let me kiss his cold, sweet lips,
I'm sure he'll never kiss mine.
7 Look away over yonder at the lonesome dove,
It flies from pine to pine,
Mourning for its own true love,
Why shouldn't I mourn for mine?