III. Negro Ballads

III.  NEGRO BALLADS

["Massa Had A Yellow Gal" is a minstrel dance song (pre- 1860) recorded by Uncle Dave Macon as "Don't You Get Weary Children and the McGee Brothers as Coming From the Ball." Another title is "I Ain't Got Time to Tarry." I think is was the minstrel song that developed into the widely known, "Cindy." At least some of the lyrics floated from this song to Cindy and other songs.]

CONTENTS: III. NEGRO BALLADS

[My hosses is hongry an' they will not eat hay]
MASSA HAD A YALLER GAL
COTTON-EYED JOE
Fox and the lawyer was different in kind, The
'TWAS ON DE BLUFF
LONESOME ROAD THE, (Look down look down that lonesome road)
Matthew Mark,Luke, and John
I found a little boll weevil
FRANKIE AND ALBERT, Frankie was a good woman
Frankie went to the barkeepers's to get a bottle of beer
FRANKIE
DUNCAN AND BRADY
TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR
COON-CAN GAME THE,I sat down to a coon-can game
HOP-JOINT, THE (I WENT TO THE HOP-JOINT)
Funniest thing that ever I seen, Take a-one on me,
TOM CAT
I got up one mornin' jes' 'bout four o'clock
GAMBLER'S BLUES, HOW SAD WAS THE DEATH OF MY SWEETHEART, I went to John Seley's hospital
I saw a youth the other day, LOST YOUTH, THE
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THE Negro loves a ballad, his own or another's. Fond as he is of a story, and using song as his second speech, he is particularly happy in combining the two into one product. He cherishes the tra­ditional ballads that have come down from the white men, adding his distinctive touches to them till his versions are his own; and like­wise he makes his racial versions of modern ballads of the whites, as Casey Jones, for example, the tale of the brave engineer. But he is not content with that. He must make his own ballads, sing his own stories in song. The Negro is by nature a mimetic creature, drama­tizing all he knows, his experiences and the life about him, expressing everything in form and motion. Abstract ideas appeal to him less than action, and his poetry in general loves to symbolize and per­sonify his philosophizings. Even his religious songs tell definite stories more often than not, balladize "Norah" and his ark, Cain and Abel, Samson and "Delijah," and the rest, with well-defined plots and climatic progression of events.

The Negro is a bom dramatist. Who else is capable of such, epic largeness of gesture, such eloquent roll of eye, such expressive hesita­tion in speech? Any old darky in the cornfield or cabin can put life and color and movement into a narrative that in a white man's speech might" come limping," to use the Negro's term. So it is nat­ural that the ballad form, with its distinct personalities, its action and dialogue, should be dear to the Negro heart, as indeed it is to all of us until we ignorantly become too learned to realize the simpler values. And sometimes a scholar makes of the living ballad a thing of dust and dry bones — which the Negro would never be guilty of. He loves it for itself, not for any theories concerning it.

One interesting variation that the Negro shows in his treatment of the ballad is to use the first person whenever he likes. While imper­sonality is held one distinguishing mark of the ballad as traditional with the whites, and a lack of identification with any specific author or transmitter is considered a merit, the Negro freely uses the first person in his racial ballads and also in those he has taken over from the whites. He brings in his "I" prominently in his versions of the traditional ballads learned generations ago from his white masters, which does not mean that he is claiming authorship of the ballad, but merely that he thinks it more dramatic, more instant in its effect if it is put in that form.

For example, the version of Lady Isabel and the Elf-Knight which an aged Negro woman in Waco, Texas, gave me, as learned from her mother, uses the first person. And the Negro version of The Jew's Daughter', reported by Professor Alphonso Smith, uses the same per­son — a quaint device in this case, where the narrator is made to re­count his own murder! That illogic evidently gave no offence to Negro singers or hearers.

John A. Lomax quotes a version of a Negro ballad, The Boll Weevil, where the singer (not necessarily the one who originated the song) felt impelled to affix his identification mark in the final stanza.

If anybody axes you who writ this song,
Tell 'em it was a dark-skinned Nigger Wid a pair of blue-duckins on,
A-lookin' fur a home,
Jes' a-lookin' fur a home.

A song of slavery times, which is still widely current in the South, varying somewhat in different localities, is concerned with a "yaller gal" that somebody's "ole mars'r " had. This version was given me by Dr. Charles Carroll, of New Orleans,

Ole Mars'r Had a Yaller Gal

Ole Mars'r had a yaller gal,
He brought her from the South;
Her hair it curled so very tight
She could n't shut her mouth.

Her eyes they were so very small
They both ran into one,
And when a fly got in her eye,
'T was like a June-bug in the sun.

Her nose it was so very long
It turned up like a squash,
And when she got her dander up,
It made me laugh, by gosh!

Ole Mars'r had no hooks or nails,
Nor anything like that,
So on this darling's nose he used
To hang his coat and hat.

One day he went to get his hat and coat
And neither one was there.
For she had swallowed both . . .  

 He took her to the tailor shop
To have her mouth made small;
The lady took in one big breath
And swallowed tailor and all.  

 A variant is given by Miss Emilia Walter, of Charleston, South Carolina. She says that this was sung to the banjo and guitar and used often as a serenade. This has a chorus, which was lacking in the other.

Ol' Mars'r Had a Pretty Yaller Gal

OF Mars'r had a pretty yaller gal,
He brought her fum de Souf;
Her hair it curled so berry tight
She could n't shut her mouf.

Chorus: Way down in Mississippi
Where de gals dey are so pretty,
W'at a happy time, way down in old Car'line!
Dis darky fell in love
Wid a han'some yaller Dinah.
Higho — higho — higho!

Louise Laurens of Shelbyville, Kentucky, contributes a version with a different chorus.  

Massa Had a Yaller Gal

Massa had a yaller gal;
He brought her from de South;
Her hair it curled so very tight
She could n't shut her mouth.

Chorus
Oh, I ain't got time to tarry,
Oh, I ain't got time to tarry,
An' I ain't got time to tarry, boys,
For I'se gwine away.

MASSA HAD A YALLER GAL  
   
He took her to de tailor,
To have her mouth made small.
She swallowed up the tailor,
Tailorshop and all.

Chorus
Massa had no hooks nor nails
Nor anything like that;
So on this darky's nose he used
To hang his coat and hat.

Chorus

A less comely person of a different sex is celebrated or anathema­tized in another song, which seems to be fairly well known in the South, as parts of it have been sent in by various persons. According to the testimony of several people who remember events before the war, this is an authentic slavery-time song. The air and some of the words were given by my sister, Mrs. George Scarborough, as learned from the Negroes on a plantation in Texas, and other parts by an old man in Louisiana, who sang it to the same tune. He said he had known it from his earliest childhood and had heard the slaves sing it on the plantations. A version was also sent by a writer whose pen name is Virginia Stait.

COTTON-EYED JOE  
   
   
Don't you remember, don't you know,
Don't you remember Cotton-eyed Joe?
Cotton-eyed Joe, Cotton-eyed Joe,
What did make you treat me so?

I'd 'a' been married forty year ago
Ef it had n't a-been for Cotton-eyed Joe!

Cotton-eyed Joe, Cotton-eyed Joe,
He was de nig dat sarved me so, —
Tuck my gal away fum me,
Carried her off to Tennessee.

I'd 'a' been married forty year ago
Ef it had n't a-been for Cotton-eyed Joe.

Hi's teeth was out an' his nose was flat,
His eyes was crossed, — but she did n't mind dat.
Kase he was tall, and berry slim,
An' so my gal she follered him.

I'd 'a' been married forty year ago
Ef it had n't a-been for Cotton-eyed Joe.

She was de prettiest gal to be found
Anywhar in de country round;
Her lips was red an' her eyes was bright,
Her skin was black but her teeth was white.

I'd 'a' been married forty year ago
Ef it had n't a-been for Cotton-eyed Joe.

Dat gal, she sho' had all my love,
An' swore fum me she 'd never move,
But Joe hoodooed her, don't you see, A
n' she run off wid him to Tennessee.

I'd 'a' been married forty year ago
Ef it had n't a-been for Cotton-eyed Joe!

Another ballad, which is said to be very old, since, as Mr. Charley Danne, of Trevilians, Virginia, who gave it to me, said, "The song about the fox was recalled at the request of my wife by an elderly gentleman who remembers having heard it often sung by slaves," is typical in that it shows the Negro's fondness for dramatic dialogue and his interest in animals. One can imagine how vividly the planta­tion slaves must have sung this spirited song recounting the wily fox's exploits and misfortunes.

The fox and the lawyer was different in kind.
The fox and the lawyer was different in mind.
The lawyer loved done meat because it was easy to chaw.
The fox was not choice but would take his blood raw.

Out from his den on a moonshiny night
The fox caught a fat hen by his cunning and sleight.
On the very same night, straight back to his den,
Next morning surrounded by the tracks of dog men.

Men says, Surrender, Mister, I am at your door,
For you shall never eat of my hens any more;
For I shall never trust you out of my sight
Till you and these dog men shall take a fair fight.

O, how can you call such a fight as this fair
When there is but my one self and all these dogs hair [here]?
I'll take a fair race with the best dog you've got,
And if he will catch me I'll die on the spot.

Ah no, Mister, that scheme will not do,
For I never intend to trust you nor none of your crew;
For none but dog lawyers can plead on dog side
And if they condemn you they'll tear off your hide.

Another song, said to be very old, was given me by Reverend J. G. Dickinson, of Evergreen, Alabama. It was sung by slaves on plan­tations before the war, and is still cherished, in some white families at least, until now. Elizabeth Dickinson, now of Columbia Univer-sity, says that her father was accustomed to use the first stanza as a "waking-up" song for his children, and that she hated to hear the strains of Old Jesse start up, especially on a morning like that de­scribed in the initial stanza.  

 OLD JESSE   
   
One cold an' frosty mornin'
Just as de sun did riz,
De possum roared, de raccoon howled,
'Cause he begun to friz.

He drew hisse'f up in a knot
Wid his knees up to his chin,
An' ev'rything had to clar de track,
When he stretched out agin.

Chorus
Old Jesse was a gemman, Among de olden times.
Nigger never went to free school,
Nor any odder college, An' all de white folks wonder whar
Dat nigger got his knowledge.

He chawed up all de Bible
An' den spat out de Scripter,
An' when he 'gin to arger strong,
He were a snortin' ripter!

Chorus

Nigger used to pick de banjo,
He play so berry well [strong?];
He alius play dat good ole tune,
"So Go It While You're Young."

He play so clear, he play so loud,
He skeered de pigs an' goats.
He alius tuck a pint ob yeast
To raise his highest notes.

Chorus

Virginia Stait sends a ballad which she thinks is old. It certainly recounts incidents that are of slavery times. The Negro's terror and his devices to escape attack are dramatically presented, and one aspect of slave life is shown which might tempt some present-day Negroes to regret emancipation — the daily ration of liquor given by the master.

'Twas on de Bluff

'Twas down on de bluff, in de state ob Indiana,
Dat's where I uster lib, chick up in de banner,
Ebery mornin, nearly, my marster gib me liquor,
An' I took a little boat an' pushed out de quicker.

Oh, 'twas up de river drif' an' 'twas in er little skiff,
An' I caught as many cat-fish as any nigger lif!
I turns around my skiff — think I see a alligator,
I picked up my rod an' I chunked a sweet potato.

I picked up my pole and I tried for to vex him,
But I could n't fool him bad, noways I could fix him.
So I up with a brick and fotched him sech a lick
I found 'twas a pine knot upon a big stick.

Then I turn around my skiff, think I see a white man comin';
"Lord," says I to myself, "here's no time for runnin'!"
So I jumped on my horse, threw my cloak around my shoulders,
An' I stood jes' as still as a old militia soldier.

An' he pass all around, like a hound upon de soun';
He took me for a mile-post, stuck into de ground.
An' my ol' marster died on the leventeenth of April.
Jack dug de hole at de root de sugar maple.

He dug a big hole, right down upon de level,
An' I have n't got a doubt but he went to de------.

Evelyn Cary Williams, of Lynchburg, Virginia, sends a brief bal­lad which is difficult to place with respect to time. It may be a genuine Negro ballad, or it may be one remembered from the smging of the whites. I have seen it nowhere else, and so I cannot say. There are certain typical Negro touches about it, for the " lonesome road" is often referred to in Negro songs, and in Negro ballads one often hangs down his head and cries, as in one of the religious songs, for example:

"What you gwine to do when Death comes tippin' in yo' room?"
"I'm gwine to hang my head, I'm gwine to hang my head and cry."

"True love," also is a favorite term with Negro songsters, and ap­pears in numerous love ditties.

On the other hand, there is a sort of literary simplicity about it that is like the lovely little Caroline songs of England. I wish that I knew the history of this. Miss Williams gives it as taken down from the singing of Charles Galloway, a black man, uneducated, a worker on the roads in Virginia.

THE LONESOME ROAD  
   
 
 "Look down, look down that lonesome road,
Hang down yo' head an' cry.
The best of friends must part some time,
An' why not you an' I?"

"True love, true love, what have I done,
That you should treat me so?
You caused me to walk and talk with you
Like I never done befo'.


These old songs are interesting in themselves, as survivals of the ballad-making art in America, apart from their racial significance. They show that America, while cherishing with delight the tradi­tional ballads of England and Scotland, the weightless cargo of song brought over in brave adventurous ships, while not forgetting the quaint and lovely tales told in verse that generations now dead took pleasure in, has produced ballads of its own as well. This new land, too, has had the power to seize upon an incident and make it mem­orable in words that sing themselves, to tell in picturing lines a story of some local character, some hero or some villain of this side the water.

One does not need, in order to appreciate them, to argue for these Negro ballads of slavery times the literary quality that inheres in those our Scotch and English forbears composed. One may value them for their homely simplicity, their rough humor, their awkward wistfulness; and though they would not stand the rigid tests of poetry, they are indigenous ballads, made in America and based on native characters and happenings; hence are worth our study. They are newer than the ballads of the old country, but they are as un­identified as to authorship, and they circulated among the people of the South, both white and black, having been sung on many planta­tions where song lightened labor and made the Negro almost forget that he was working, so great was his pleasure in his song.

In 1904, Professor Kittredge, in his introduction to the one-volume edition of Child's "English and Scottish Popular Ballads" wrote: "Ballad-making, so far as the English-speaking nations are con­cerned, is a lost art; and the same may be said of ballad-singing."

In a letter to Professor Alphonso Smith, dated February 20, 1915, he says: "When I wrote'the same may be said of ballad-singing/ I was, of course, in error. Ballad-singing is by no means a lost art, either in Great Britain, or in America. The evidence for its survival has come in since I wrote. If I were now summing up the facts I should modify my statement."

I wonder if Professor Kittredge would not modify also his state­ment that ball&d-making is a lost art, if he were to review the Negro folk-songs of to-day. The Negroes in the South are now singing bal­lads which of necessity are of recent composition, since they cele­brate recent happenings. These ballads are as far from being linked with the names of specific authors as are those in Child's collections, so that if the impersonality of composition be a proof of ballad art, that is not wanting here. No Negro can tell you who made the song he sings, for he is not at all interested in authcr, or "maker," but inthe story, in the incident and character the song relates. A collector may ask in vain as to authorship, for he finds nothing.

These ballads of to-day, as sung by the Negroes of the South, are as fluid in form, as changeable in version, as different in varying locali­ties, as ever were English or Scotch songs of centuries ago. They are being made now, as in the past, and are the products of recognized individual composers rather than of many singers. What is com­munal origin, if it does not imply that different singers contributed their share to the making of a song? One does not need to believe that the ballad was made all at once, that spontaneous group-singing on one occasion produced it. But these Negroes illustrate their type of communal composition when they add to or subtract from or change the songs they sing. Many times I have been told by Negro singers that they vary their song to suit their mood, that they rarely sing stanzas twice in the same order, and that individual singers will add to the song at will.

The printed page has nothing to do with the Negro's circulation of his ballads. The Negro who is fondest of his ballads is the one who is not interested particularly in print, perhaps is altogether ignorant of it. (That is not true in all cases, of course.) The ballad is scattered over a state by the singing of the care-free vagrant Negroes who go from place to place in search of work, or are sent about on construc­tion gangs, and so forth. Songs lightly pass the borders of states, stealing a ride as casually as the tramps who ride the sleepers. Tunes may persist while the words vary, or words may remain somewhat the same and be sung to different airs. In different states a song may celebrate different local characters, bring in names of different towns, and in each locality be thought of as a purely native product. But a careful comparison may show that the versions are but variants of one ballad, started by some unknown soldier of song, and kept alive by thousands of others. A song passes from lip to lip, till it is almost unrecognizable, and yet is the same.

The Negro has no theory of ballad origin to expound or explode. Communal composition as a theory of literary art concerns him not at all, but he makes use of it as a practice in his spontaneous singing. The Negro is a born improviser, and takes delight in adding to a song, his own or another's. A spiritual or a shout-song sung at a camp meeting may be prolonged indefinitely, as any individual singer may start a new stanza, which is easy to construct because of the simple framework. The congregation will quickly catch it up, and perhaps it becomes a permanent part of the song after that, or perhaps it is never thought of again. Mrs. Busbee, of North Caro-lina, tells of an occasion on which she says she was "present at the birth of a ballad." The Negro preacher at a camp meeting quoted a verse of scripture and then chanted a stanza of a song he improvised from it. The congregation instantly caught the tune and sang the stanza after him. Before the song was ended, the congregation was improvising additional stanzas, and the whole was sung enthusiasti­cally and repeated many times thereafter. Mrs. Busbee says that she was the only white person present at the meeting and was tre­mendously impressed by the folk-loristic significance of the occur­rence.

Hatcher Hughes reports having been an auditor at the origin of a spontaneous communal ballad in the mountain districts of North Carolina some time ago. A shiftless character whose first name was John, and whose last name, while known, is charitably withheld, had maliciously killed a fine hunting dog, Old Lead, a favorite " tree dog " for hunting squirrels. The community was greatly incensed over the occurrence, accused John of wishing to eat the dog, and threatened to beat him severely. His wife, Mary, wept and begged for mercy for him. The neighbors were gathered together discussing the situation, when, after some tentative tuning up, a ballad flashed into being. Mr. Hughes can recall only the first stanza:

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Killed Old Lead and home he run.
Old Lead was eat, and John was beat,
And Mary ran bawling down the street.

Mr. Hughes says that the word "street" was used purely for effect of rhyme! He says that others present improvised additional stanzas, and that the song was added to and sung in the community for a long time, as a genuine example of spontaneous communal composition of folk-song.

John A. Lomax argues for the communal authorship of The Boll Weevily saying in an article in the Journal of American Folk-lore, volume xxviii: "The ballad of The Boll Weevil and other songs in my collection are absolutely known to have been composed by groups of people whose community life made their thinking similar, and present valuable corroborative evidence of the theory advanced by Professor Gummere and Professor Kittredge concerning the origin of the ballads from which come those now contained in the great Child collection."

This ballad of The Boll Weevil can be more definitely placed with respect to location and time than can many folk-songs. It mustnaturally have had its origin in a cotton-growing state, and it could not have been composed, communally or otherwise, before the insect in question crossed the Rio Grande and began its depredations in Texas. That was about thirty years ago, which fact fixes the song as of recent origin.

Each cotton-growing state has its own version of The Boll Weevil, which varies in length and incident from other versions, but is essentially the same. Here is a version given by Roberta Anderson, of Texas, that differs somewhat from the one I used in my book, "From a Southern Porch," but is like it.

I found a little boll weevil,
An' put 'im on de ice.
Thought dat dat 'ud kill him,
But he say, "Oh, ain't dat nice?
Dis is mah home, dis is man home!"

Found anodder little weevil,
Put 'im in de sand.
Thought dat sure would kill 'im,
But he stood hit lack a man.
Dat was his home, dat was his home!

De farmer say to de merchant,
"Oh, what you think of dat?
I found a little weevil
In mah new Stetson hat,
Huntin' a home, huntin' a home!"

Another Texas form of the ballad runs as follows. I give only the first stanza.

MR. BOLL WEEVIL

I says to Mister Boll Weevil,
"What you doin' thar?
The last time I seed you,
You wuz set tin' on a squah,
Just huntin' you a home,
Just huntin' you a home."

Another version is given by Louise Garwood, of Houston, Texas.

Oh, have you heard de latest,
De latest all yore own?
All about de Boll Weevil
Whut caused me to lose mah home?

First time ah saw de Boll Weevil
He was settin' on de squah.
Next time ah saw dat Weevil
He was settin' everywhah,
Jes' a-lookin' foh a home, — lookin' foh a home!

Fahmah say to de Weevil,
"Whut makes yore head so red?"
Weevil say to de fahmah, "It's a wondah ah ain't dead,
Lookin' foh a home, lookin' foh a home!"

Nigger say to de Weevil,
"Ah'll throw you in de hot sand."
Weevil say to de nigger,
"Ah'll stand hit lak a man.
Ah'll have a home, ah'll have a home!"

Says de Captain to de Mistis,
"Whut do you think ob dat?
Dis Boll Weevil done make a nes'
Inside mah Sunday hat;
He'll have a home, — he'll have a home!"

Ef you wanta kill de Boll Weevil
You betta staht in time.
Use a little sugar
An' lots o' turpentine,
An' he'll be dead, — an' he'll be dead!

Mrs. Henry Simpson, of Dallas, Texas, remembers this version as she heard it sung by the workers on a plantation in the Brazos Bottom. Most of the stanzas conform generally to other versions, but these two are different:

Said the merchant to the farmer,
"We're in an awful fix!
If things go on in this way,
You'll have me in the sticks,
Without a home, without a home!"

"Oh, Wine!" said Honey,
"I don't know where we're at.
If the Boll Weevil goes on like this,
We'll all be busted flat,
We'll have no home, we'll have no home!"

Mabel Cranfill, also of Dallas, recalls a form of the ballad that has the refrain:

Boll Weevil's got a home, Babe,
Boll Weevil-'s got a home.

Lizzie Coleman, principal of a Negro school in Greenville, Mis­sissippi, writes: "The Boll Weevil was composed by a man in Meri-vale, I believe. It is like many other ballads written by men in this state. The tune is made, the writer sings it and sells his song, His hearers catch the sound — and on it goes."

The boll weevil is a promising subject for balladry, since he fur­nishes many romantic motifs. He is an outlaw, hunted in every field. IJe has apparently superhuman powers of resistance to hard­ship, exposure, and attacks from man, the individual, and from or­ganized spciety. He has an extraordinary cunning and trickery, can outwit and flout man, and go his way despite all human efforts to stop him. He is coming to be a beloved rascal likeBre'r Rabbit, his exploits and cunning joyed in even by those he defies; a picaresque hero with an international reputation for evil; a Robin Hood of the cotton-patch, admired while he is hunted down.

Doubtless in time a cycle of ballads will spring up with him as central character, a compensation in song for the economic ruin he has brought. Some of the versions of the ballad now in existence are said to have the mythical "hundred stanzas," so that already con­temporary legendry is playing with this tiny, powerful villain. One correspondent writes, "I wish you could see the Negroes' faces light up when I mention The Boll Weevil, and they all say they could think of many stanzas if they had time."
Another ballad which appears in various sections of the South and is widely current among the Negroes, one of their most popular songs, relates the misadventures of a Negro woman and her faithless spouse. The title varies, being called in different versions Franky, Pauly, Lilly, Georgy, Frankie and Johnnie, Franky and Albert, Franky Baker, and so forth. The stanzas are changed in order and in word­ing, but the chief incidents of the tale remain the same. I have a number of versions, no two of which are identical. The popularity of the song and the extent to which it is known were illustrated re­cently when F. P. A. of the Tribune <cConning Tower'' played with it for some time, issuing from day to day parodies of the ballad, or different versions sent in by readers. Some stanzas and some ver­sions are said to be unsuitable for print. I used one version in my "From a Southern Porch" & somewhat different form from these herein included.

The first is contributed by Roberta Anderson, of Texas, and tells the tragedy succinctly and with no waste verbage.

Frankie and Albert

Frankie was a good woman,
As everybody knows.
She bought her po' Albert
A bran' new suit o' clo'se.
Oh, he's her man,
But he done her wrong!

Barkeeper said to Frankie,
"I won't tell you no lies:
I saw yo' po' Albert
Along with Sara Slies.
Oh, he's yo' man,
But he done you wrong!"

An' then they put po' Albert
In a bran-new livery hack,
Took him to the graveyard
But they never brought him back,
Oh, he's her man,
But he done her wrong!

Louise Garwood, of Houston, Texas, gives the following version of the catastrophe, a little fuller in detail:

Frankie was a good woman,
Everybody knows.
Paid about a hundred dollars
For the making of Albert's clothes.
"Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

Standing on the street corner,
Didn't mean no harm.
Up in the second-story window
Saw Alice in Albert's arms!
"Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

Frankie went down to the saloon,
Didn't go there for fun;
Underneath her silk petticoat
She carried a forty-one gun.
"Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

"Listen here, Mister Bartender,
Don't you tell me no lies.
Have you seen that Nigger Albert
With the girl they call the Katy Fly?
Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

Frankie shot Albert once,
Frankie shot Albert twice,
Third time she shot poor Albert
She took that Nigger's life.
"Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

Rubber-tired carriage, Kansas City hack,
Took poor Albert to the cemetery
But forgot to bring him back.
"Oh, he was my man,
But he done me wrong!"

W. H. Thomas, professor of English at Agricultural and Mechani­cal College, of Texas, and formerly president of the Texas Folk-lore Society, reported another version, in a paper read before the society.

Frankie went to the barkeeper's, to get a bottle of beer;
She says to the barkeeper: "Has my loving babe been here?"
He was her man, babe, but he done her wrong.


The barkeeper says to Frankie: "I ain't going to tell you no lie;
Albert passed 'long here walking about an hour ago with a Nigger named Alkali."
He was her man, babe, but he done her wrong.

Frankie went to Albert's house; she did n't go for fun;
For underneath her apron was a blue-barrel forty-one.
He was her man, babe, but he done her wrong.

When Frankie got to Albert's house, she did n't say a word,
But she cut down upon poor Albert just like he was a bird.
He was her man, babe, but she shot him down.

When Frankie left Albert's house, she lit out in a run,
For underneath her apron was a smoking forty-one.
He was her man, babe, but he done her wrong.

"Roll me over, doctor, roll me over slow.
'Cause when you rolls me over, them bullets hurt me so.
I was her man, babe, but she shot me down."

Frankie went to the church house and fell upon her knees,
Crying, "Oh, Lord, have mercy, won't you give my heart some ease?
He was my man, babe, but I shot him down."

Rubber-tired buggy, decorated hack,
They took him to the graveyard, but they could n't bring him back.
He was her man, babe, but he done her wrong.

Mrs. Tom Bartlett, of Marlin, Texas, sends a version with com­ment on that given by Professor Thomas. "You will notice that Mr. Thomas calls the cause of dissension between Frankie and Albert, 'Alkali,' but I am sure he is wrong. All who have given me any version at all agree that Alice caused the trouble, and one went so far as to name her Alice Fly. Some Negroes sing this, l Georgia was a good woman/ but most of them agree that it was Frankie. Some say she paid only $41 for his suit of clothes. All who have given me versions end up each stanza with, 'Oh, he was my man, but he done me wrong!' whereas you will note that Mr. Thomas says, fHe was her man, but she shot him down!'"

Frankie and Albert

Frankie was a good woman,
Everybody knows.
Paid one hundred dollars
For Albert a suit of clothes!
For he was her man, but he done her wrong!

Frankie went to Albert's house
And found little Alice there!
Pulled out her forty-five
And brought him to the floor!
"He was my man, but he done me wrong!"

Frankie went to the courthouse;
Courthouse look so high!
Put her foot on the bottom step
And hung her head and cry,
"Oh, he was my man, but he done me wrong!"

"Roll me over, doctor,
Roll me over slow.
Bullet in my left side
And it pain my body so!"
"Oh, he was my man, but he done me wrong!"

Frankie had two children,
A boy and a girl;
Never see their papa any more
Till they meet him in another world!
"Oh, he was my man, but he done me wrong!"

There are two tunes for the song. The more common air, taken down from the singing of W. H. Thomas and several others, and also sent in by Mrs. Bartlett, is the one I have always heard in Texas. Any of the versions of the song heretofore given can be sung to it, though the adaptable Negro voices have to do a reasonable amount of slurring and spreading out in places. One Texas stanza will serve to illustrate the tune:

FRANKIE  
   
Frankie was a good woman,
Ev'rybody knows,
Gave forty-one dollars
For her Albert's suit of clothes.
Oh, he's my man, babe, but he done me wrong!

This is extraordinarily effective when sung by a group of colored people, with its wailful refrain.  Another variant of the ballad has a different tune, somewhat more sophisticated. The words and the air are less frequently heard than the others, yet they are fairly popular in the South.  

FRANKIE AND ALBERT  
   

 the bright stars a - bove. He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie and Albert were lovers.
Oh, lordy, how they did love!
Said they 'd be true to each other,
True as the bright stars above.
He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Glenn Mullin is using one form of this version, somewhat different from any that I have, in his forthcoming book, "Adventures of a Scholar Tramp." He captured it in the Texas Panhandle, and it contains some fascinating details.

Loraine Wyman sent me a version she had got from the singing of Robert Buchanan, from Beaver Creek, Ash County, North Caro­lina, which has additional details and varying refrains at the end of the stanzas.

There is something elemental about the passions and the swift action of this ballad that makes it popular. Jealousy, whether of a husband or a lover, is a comprehensible and common emotion, so that the reader's sympathy is divided between the indignant wife, swift to avenge her injury, and "her man" who " done her wrong." We do not know and perhaps shall never discover—so lame is scholarly research — where this militant woman lived, nor when she used her pistol with such telling effect. We do not know who Franky was—or Lilly, or Pauly, or Georgy, as the case may be. We cannot tell whether her erring spouse was Albert or Johnny, but whether or not he was a Baker, his cake was all dough when Franky — or Pauly, or Lilly, or Georgy — learned of his Sly defection. And her name — though varied in different versions of the song so that perhaps she would not recognize it herself if she heard it sung in other sections of the South — will go down among those of other romantic heroines who have been handy with weapons in emergency.

Duncan and Brady is another ballad of recent origin. It is fairly well known among the Negroes in Texas. Mrs. Tom Bartlett, of Marlin, writes concerning it:

"The Duncan and Brady song is a gem, and I will not rest in peace till I get it all for you. It is a genuine ballad in that it cele­brates the final adventures of a 'bad Nigger' who shot up the town. No other place than Waco was the scene of the fray, and that prob­ably accounts for its great popularity in this region. ... I am exerting myself greatly to get this song, having offered various Negroes of my acquaintance bribes in the way of Mr. Bartlett's old hats and shoes; and if you know their weakness for these two objects of apparel, you may feel confident of my success."

Duncan and Brady

Duncan and Brady had a talk;
Said Duncan to Brady, "Let's take a walk,
Go down to the colored saloon
And whip out all the colored coons,"
Went down to the colored bar,
First a drink and then a cigar.

Duncan thought Brady was a bluff,
Brady showed Duncan he was the stuff.
Next mornin' at half-past nine
Buggies and hearses formed in line,
Takin' ol' Brady to the buryin' ground.

Later on, Mrs. Bartlett writes:

"This is all I have ever been able to trace of the famous Duncan and Brady ballad. As you see, it is not the same as the first one I sent you, and Mr. Bartlett and Dr. Shaw (a highly respectable gentleman from whom I got most of the following rather question­able ditties) had hot and bitter words over this particular song, Mr. Bartlett contending that the other (the first) was the only true and original Duncan and Brady, and Dr. Shaw contesting as feverishly that his own version was the authentic one. I give it and leave you the responsibility of a decision in favor of one or the other.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Brady come down on — Gabriel car,
Kickin' out windows and knockin' out doors,
Tryin' to play even with Diamond Joe!
Been on a jolly so long!

"(Follows a thrilling account of his adventures, but I can get no details); then:

"Brady, Brady was a big fat man;
Doctor caught hold of Brady's hand,
Felt of his pulse and shook his head.
I believe to my soul old Brady's dead!'
Been on a jolly so long!

"Soon's the women heard Brady was dead
They went straight home and dressed in red.
Came a-skippin' and toddlin' along,
'Cause they's glad old Brady was gone.
Been on a jolly so long!

"It is easy to see that Diamond Joe had the ladies with him in the unfortunate affair. 'Women' is not the word actually used in the song." Louise Garwood, of Houston, contributes a version of this song:

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Brady came home on a cable car.
Well, he was drunk and out of sight,
Had n't been sober in many a night,
Mr. Duncan was a heap big squaw;
Met Big Jim and he had a taw.

Well, he carried him down to the colored saloon,
Gonna kill himself a very heavy-set coon.
Mr. Duncan was behind the bar,
When in walked Brady with a shining star;
Cried, "Duncan, Duncan, you are under arrest!"
An' Duncan put a bullet in Brady's breast.

Brady fell down on the barroom floor;
Cried, "Please, Mr. Duncan, don't you shoot no more!"
The women cried, "Oh, ain't it a shame,
He's shot King Brady — gonna shoot him again!"
Mrs. Brady was at home in bed,
When she got de telegram that Brady was dead.

Cried, "Chillun, chillun, chillun, put yore hats on yore head,
And let's go down an' see if old King Brady is dead."
"Brady, Brady, why didn't you run?
When you saw that Duncan had a forty-four gun?
Oh, Brady, Brady, Brady, you should oughter have run;
You had n't oughter faced that great big Gatling gun!"
Well, the women cried for many a day,
"Brady's gone an' he's gone to stay!"
For many a month there was crape on the door,
Brady's gone an' ain't coming back any more!

The Coon-Can Game is another ballad sent by Mrs. Bartlett. Coon-can is said to be a complicated card-game, something Like rummy, my correspondent suggests, only more scientific, and is a great favorite with Negroes. It is also played by certain fashionable white people at present.

The music to this, as to the other songs that Mrs. Bartlett sent, was written down by Mrs. Buie, of Marlin. Mrs. Bartlett writes: "I cannot begin to tell you of the difficulties Mrs. Buie met with in trying to translate the songs 'from African to American music,' as she expresses the process. There are slurs and drops and ' turns' and heaven knows what of notes not to be interpreted by any known musical sign. You are experienced enough with Negro music to know that it is entirely different as sung, from the regular accom­paniment. I think, though, that Mrs. Buie has been very successful in getting the native curlicues, the melody and rhythm. She has truly worked against odds."

THE COON-CAN GAME

I sat down to a coon-can game,
I could n't play my hand.
I was thinkin' about the woman I love
Run away with another man.

Run away with another man,
Poor boy I Run away with another man.
I was thinkin' about the woman I love
Run away with another man.

I went down to the big depot,
The train came a-rumblin' by.
I looked in the window, saw the woman I loved,
And I hung my head and cried.

I hung my head and cried,
Poor boy I I hung my head and cried.
I looked in the window, saw the woman I loved,
And I hung my head and cried.

I jumped right on the train platform,
I walked right down the aisle.
I pulled out my forty-some odd
And I shot that dark-skinned child.

I shot that dark-skinned child,
Poor boyl I shot that dark-skinned child.
I pulled out my forty-some odd
And I shot that dark-skinned child.

They took me down to the big court house;
The judge, he looked at me.
I said, "Oh, kind-hearted Judge,
What am it gwine to be?"

What am it gwine to be,
What am it gwine to be, Poor boy?
What am it gwine to be? I say, "Oh, kind-hearted Judge,
What am it gwine to be?"

The judge he heard the contract read,
The clerk, he took it down.
They handed me over to the contractor,
And now I'm penitentiary-bound.

And now I'm penitentiary-bound, Poor boy!
And now I'm penitentiary-bound.
They handed me over to the contractor,
And now I 'm penitentiary-bound.

The night was cold and stormy,
It sho' did look like rain.
I ain't got a friend in the whole wide world,
Nobody knows my name.

Nobody knows my name,
Poor boy! Nobody knows my name.
I ain't got a friend in the whole wide world.
Nobody knows my name.

My mother's in the cold, cold ground,
My father ran away.
My sister married a gamblin' man,
And now I'm gone astray.

And now I 'm gone astray, Poor boy!
And now I'm gone astray.
My sister married a gamblin' man,
And now I 'm gone astray.

Another picaresque ballad, The Hop-Joint, which is a fit compan­ion piece for The Coon-Can Game, is also sent by Mrs. Bartlett, who says:

" There are many more stanzas to The Hop-Joint, but I have had a hard time getting even these. The 'respectable' Negroes don't like to confess that they know any of it, because it is a disreputable song, and they are quite averse to having the shadow cast on their good name that any acquaintance with the song would, to their mind, shed. You know a hop-joint is the vernacular for a drug-shop, and all that implies, and 'drug' to a Negro means cocaine, coke, dope. etc., being synonymous with 'hops.' I have heard the term 'hop-head' or 'hop-eater' applied to 'dope-fiends.' Of course, the hop-joint is the very lowest imaginable rendezvous for the most thoroughly submerged of the colored underworld. No wonder they all disclaim the song."

I WENT TO THE HOP-JOINT  

   
 one! (Oh, ba - by darl - in', why don't you come home?)

I went to the hop-joint
And thought I'd have some fun.
In walked Bill Bailey
With his forty-one!
(Oh, baby darlin', why don't you come home?)

First time I saw him
I was standin' in the hop-joint door.
Next time I saw him,
I was lyin' on the hop-joint floor.
(Oh, baby darlin', why don't you come home?)

Shot me in the side
And I staggered to the door.
Don't catch me playin' bull
In the hop-joint any more!
(Oh, baby darlin', why don't you come home?)

Some rides in buggies,
Some rides in hacks.
Some rides in hearses,
But they never come back!
(Oh, baby darlin', why don't you come home?)

Mrs. Baxtlett says," There is another version which is hardly fit for publication. I have had a hard time getting any of the words at all.  
   
"I went to the hop-joint,
I could n't control my mind.
Pulled out my forty-five
And shot that gal of mine.
(Oho, my baby, take a-one on me!)

"From the refrain I am inclined to connect this version with that once widely sung ditty:  
   
"Funniest thing that ever I seen,
Was a tom-cat stitchin' on a sewin' machine!
Oho, my baby, take a-one on me!

"Sewed so easy and he sewed so slow,
Took ninety-nine stitches on the tom-cat's toe.
Oho, my baby, take a-one on me!

"The above words were subject to much juggling, and I am sure that many different words could be found, but I doubt if any would pass the censor save the two stanzas that I have given. The tune to the tom-cat song is slightly different from that of the regular Hop-Joint, and the refrain, or chorus, of so many of the songs will differ some­what.

"Here are more stanzas to The Hop-Joint, 'Refined edition!'

"Went up to the courthouse,
My pistol in my hand;
Says to the sheriff, 
I'm a guilty man!'
Oh, my baby, why don't you come home?

"The judge he struck sentence,
The jury they hung.
Gimme ninety-nine years, judge,
For that awful crime I done!"
Oh, my baby, why don't you come home?

[  ]rendering of the event) is the shooting-iron with which a crime is accomplished. The pistol, or "gun" as the Negro calls it, is one of the dramatis persona, by no means inactive or silent — for it has a speaking part all too often, with no request for encore, however, and is fondly and intimately described, usually as a forty-one, or a forty-five. Fewer crimes of violence are committed in the South now that prohibition has gone, even partially, into effect, and laws against "toting a pistol" are better enforced, which desirable state of affairs may perhaps result in a not so desirable paucity of stirring ballads in the future.
Howard W. Odum, professor in the University of North Carolina, in an article in the Journal of American Folk-lore, reports several versions of Stagolee's carryings on. The first is sung by Negroes in Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, and Alabama, as well as by Negro vagrants as they travel casually.


Stagolee
Stagolee, Stagolee, what's dat in yo' grip?
Nothing but my Sunday clothes; I'm goin' to take a trip.
Oh dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee, Stagolee, where you been so long?
I been out on de battle-fiel' shootin' an' havin' fun.
Oh dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee was a bully man an' ev'ybody knowed,
When dey seed Stagolee comin', to give Stagolee de road. 
Oh dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee started out, he give his wife his han';
"Good-bye, darlin', I'm goin' to kill a man." 
Oh dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee killed a man an' laid him on de flo'
What's dat he kill him wid? Dat same ol' fohty-fo'.
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee killed a man an' laid him on his side.
What's dat he kill him wid? Dat same ol' fohty-five.
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Out o' de house an' down de street Stagolee did run,
In his hand he held a great big smoking gun.
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee, Stagolee, I'll tell you what I'll do,
If you'll git me out o' dis trouble, I'll do as much for you.
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Ain't it a pity, ain't it a shame,
Stagolee was shot, but he don't want no name! 
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee, Stagolee, look what you done done.
Killed de bes' ole citizen; now you'll have to be hung. 
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

Stagolee cried to de jury an' to de jedge: "Please don't take my life;
I have only three little children an' one little lovin' wife." 
O dat man, bad man, Stagolee done come!

A version with a different tune is sung more commonly in Georgia.

I got up one morning jes' 'bout four o'clock;
Stagolee an' big bully done have one finish fight;
What 'bout? All 'bout dat rawhide Stetson hat.
Stagolee shoot Bully; Bully fell down on de flo'.
Bully cry out, "Dat fohty-fo' hurts me so."
Stagolee done killed dat Bully now.

Sent for de wagon, wagon didn't come;
Loaded down wid pistols an' all dat Gatlin' gun
Stagolee done kill dat Bully now.

Some giv' a nickel some giv' a dime;
I didn't give a red copper cent, 'cause he's no friend of mine.
Stagolee done kill dat Bully now.

Carried po' Bully to de cemetery; people standin' round,
When preacher say Amen, lay po' body down.
Stagolee done kill dat Bully now.

Fohty-dollar coffen, eighty-dollar hack,
Carried po' man to de cemetery, but failed to bring him back.
Ev'ybody been dodging Stagolee.

The stanza relating the contributions of various amounts, as a nickel or a dime, refers to a racial custom in certain colored districts which has interest for folk-lorists. When a Negro dies with no visible funds to provide the funeral considered desirable, a collection is taken up to defray expenses. Dr. Sidney Williams, of Mississippi, recently told me of a dramatic instance of this kind. One dark Mississippian had "passed out" as they say, and his friends had made up the amount of ten dollars to buy his coffin. A colored man was started to town on a mule to buy the coffin. On his way he passed a couple of Negroes by the roadside, shooting craps. He could not resist join­ing them, though he had no money of his own; and so he yielded to the impulse to stake the funeral money. Throwing his ten dollars down dramatically, he staked it all on one throw. "Two coffins or none!" he cried.  It turned out to be none, and so the corpse was buried wrapped in a sheet. I do not know what the contributors of the embezzled ten dollars did to the gambler.

Worth Tuttle Hedden, formerly instructor in English in Straight College, New Orleans, sent a ballad which was sung by a student in the college, a young Galveston Negro. He reports that it is rather widely sung among the Negroes in Galveston, and he calls it "a love ballad." The hospital referred to is a local institution, and so the song undoubtedly must have originated in Galveston, and is prob­ably of somewhat recent origin.

How Sad Was the Death o' My Sweetheart

I went to John Seley's hospital;
The nurse there she turned me around.
She turned me around, yes, so slowly,
An' said, "The poor girl is sleepin' in the ground."

I was walkin' down Walnut Street so lonely,
My head it was hanging so low.
It made me think of my sweetheart,
Who was gone to a world far unknown.

Let her go, let her go.
May God bless her, wherever she may be.
She is mine.
She may roam this wide world over
But she will never fin' a man like me.

While walkin' I met her dear mother,
With her head hangin' low as was mine.
"Here's the ring of your daughter, dear mother,
And the last words as she closed her eyes:
"Take this ring, take this ring,
Place it on your lovin' right hand.
And when I am dead and forgotten
Keep the grass from growing on my grave."

The following sorrowful lines were given by Mrs. Busbee, of North Carolina, who says that they are sung by both whites and Negroes in her state. The diction and sentence arrangement do not seem par­ticularly negro in type, though it might be the composition of some colored preacher who loved high-sounding words and stilted sentence structure, while on the other hand, the intense emotion and the strong religious sentiment are characteristic of Negroes, and so the ballad may be theirs. At all events, it is theirs by adoption.

The Lost Youth

I saw a youth the other day,
All in his bloom look fair and gay;
He trifled all his time away
And dropped into eternity.
Oh, my soul! my soul!

While lying on his dying bed,
Eternity he seemed to dread.
He said, "Oh, Lord, I see my state,
But I'm afraid I'm come too late.
Oh, my soul! my soul!"

His kindly sisters standing by
Saw their dear brother groan and die.
He said, "Oh, sisters, pray for me,
For I am lost in eternity.
Oh, my soul! my soul!"

His loving parents standing round,
Their tears were falling to the ground.
He said, "Oh, parents, farewell!
By deeds I am drug to hell.
Oh, my soul! my soul!"

I think I heard some children say
They never heard their parents pray.
And think, dear parents, you must die,
And like this youth, you, too, may cry,
"Oh, my soul! my soul!"

Numerous other ballads of the Negroes might be given if space permitted, but these wiU serve to illustrate the types, both of the slavery-time ballads and of the present. The subjects of song change as social and economic changes come, but the spirit of song persists, and the Negro to-day, as before the war, loves to preserve in picturing lines the events and characters that take his fancy, whether they be from the Old Testament or from the factory or construction gang with which he works. His concepts take concrete form and show dramatic action.

We can know but little of the ballads to-day as of the past; can rarely tell whence they arise or whither they go, borne on what vagrant winds of fancy to ephemeral or permanent remem­brance, or to swift forgetfulness. They come as obscurely as the boll weevil which they celebrate, so that we cannot be sure just how or when; we can know only that they are here to-day, perhaps to re­main, or perchance to vanish as secretly as they appeared. Many, we may be certain, have sprung up, but failed of the fostering voice which might have carried them on to wider knowledge, of the friendly imagination which added to them here and there, while others no more worthy in themselves have happily caught the fancy of good "songsters" and passed from lip to lip till many learned them and cherished them.

These ballads are crude, yes, but they have vitality, and they de­serve our study, since they are products of our own land, reflections of aspects of our own society. There is no need to scorn them on the ground that they were not made by gentlefolk, as some of the Eng­lish and Scotch ballads were; but we should do well to study them, both for their interest and for their association with the race from which they spring. If we would know the Negro, let us study his songs. Who can say to what extent the Negro's life has been shown in his songs, or how much they have influenced it?