My Love Heneree [Song of a Lost Hunter] - Proffitt (NC) c.1920 Warner 1959
[My title, my date. This appears on the recording, Folk Legacy, "Frank Proffitt, of Reese, North Carolina," 1962; titled "Song of a Lost Hunter or Love Henry." It's also on North Carolina Songs and Ballads; Frank Proffitt (1913-1965), titled, Song of a Lost Hunter. Years ago I figured out he learned this as a boy, now I need confirmation on the 1920s date- Frank would have been 7 years old.
R. Matteson 2014]
My Love Heneree [Song of a Lost Hunter] - Frank Proffitt (Beech Mountain, NC) c.1920 Warner 1959
Pitch black was the night, as black as could be
Lost from his hunting was poor Henery,
His true love is waiting a-tearing her hair
A-waiting to see her love all so fair,
A-waiting to see her love all so fair.
"Who rides on my land at such an hour?
Who is it?" did cry she.
"Only I ride at such an hour,"
So said my love Heneree,
So said my love Heneree.
"Come down, come down, my love Henery,
And stay this night with me.
My bed is made all soft and warm,
And just for you and me,
And just for you and me."
"I cannot come down, I will not come down,
Your words beguile me sore,
I have a true love in old Scotland
I wish to see once more,
I wish to see once more."
"I will not let you leave my lands,
From me you'll never part."
Out of her bosom she took her pen-knife,
And stabs him to the heart,
And stabs him to the heart.
"Come to me, my servant man
Come unto me I pray,
A dead man is in my bed,
Let's hide him well away,
Let's hide him well away."
"What is the hour my servant man?"
"It is the hour of three,
The chickens are crowing [be]fore the middle of the night,
And the blood of poor Henery,
And the blood of poor Henery."
She took him by her yeller hair,
He took him by his feet,
The throwed him down beneath the ground,
In a hole so dark and deep,
In a hole so dark and deep.
Come to my bed my servant man,
Come sleep this night with me.
My bed is made of the softest[1] fleece,
And it a-waits for me,
And it a-waits for me.
I will not lay upon you bed,
For this can never be,
For I'm a-scared my blood will run,
Like the blood of poor Henery,
Like the blood of poor Henery.
1. sung, "saftest"