Southern Mountains

SOUTHERN MOUNTAINS

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(Contents)

WAY UP ON CLINCH MOUNTAIN

LIZA IN THE SUMMER TIME (SHE DIED ON THE TRAIN)

COON CAN (POOR BOY)

GYPSY DAVY

THE ROVING GAMBLER

YONDER COMES MY PRETTY LITTLE GIRL

THE GAMBOLING MAN

BURY ME BENEATH THE WILLOW

MAG'S SONG

THE ORPHAN GIRL OR NO BREAD FOR THE POOH

1 GOT A GAL AT THE HEAD OF THE HOLLER

LONESOME ROAD

FOND AFFECTION

GO BRING ME BACK MY BLUE-EYED BOY

LONDON CITY

THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN

I DON'T LIKE NO RAILROAD MAN

 

HARMONIZATION BY

Alfred G. Wathall
Alfred G. Wathall 

Alfred G. Wathall
Lillian Rosedale Goodman
Alfred G. Wathall
Hazel Felman
Rutfi Crawford
Alfred G. Wathall
Hazel Felman
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J. RUSSELL SMITH in North America
 In 1917 I met Cecil J. Sharp, Director of the Stratford-upon-Avon School of Folk Lore and Folk Dancing. He was at Knoxville, Tennessee, just back from the mountains, joyful over a book  full of new ballads, copied down as people had sung them to him. "These missionaries with their  schools!" he exclaimed indignantly. "I'd like to build a wall around these mountains and let the mountain people alone. The only distinctive culture in America is here. These people live. They  sustain themselves on the meanest food. They are not interested in eating, but they have time  to sing ballads."

When these people emigrated to this continent, many of them landed at Philadelphia to join  Penn's more tolerant colony. Gradually they pushed their way up the Cumberland Valley into  Maryland, then up the valley of the Shenandoah and the narrow valleys of southwestern Virginia.  Then they pressed beyond the Cumberland Gap arid gradually took possession of the great region  of the Southern Appalachians. As Bishop Burleson well puts it:

"Most of them broke through the barrier of the mountains and founded new commonwealths  in Kentucky and Tennessee. But some stopped in the mountains. A horse died, a cart broke  down, a young couple could not leave the little grave of their only child; fatigue, illness, the lure  of the mountains now it was one thing and now another; but when the host had passed, there were scattered dwellings being reared among the great hills, and a few hundreds progenitors of  many thousands had begun a course of life which was to continue unchanged for generations.  They came in poor, . . . and they are today the poorest people in America. As in all races, there  are different grades among them, ranging from the fairly well-to-do farmers along the river valleys  to the squatters in the cabins on the high mountains, where the cultivated land is often so steep  that the harvested crops can only be brought down in sleds."

Illiteracy is high in the Southern Highlands, but illiteracy does not prove anything about one's  brain capacity. We were all recently illiterate, and furthermore, gentlemen are born, not made with print. Friends of the mountaineer state it thus:

"It is the fatal fallacy of a public-schooled world that literacy is counted the earmark of civilisation. The keenest intelligence, the sweetest behavior, the most high-born distinction of manner  are gifts of the gods to those who can neither read nor write. A dear friend once said: "We-uns  that cain't read or write have a heap of time to think, and that's the reason we know more than you-all."

"If the time ever comes when the requirements for citizenship are based on intelligence rather than on information, perhaps these people will make a better showing than the multitude in cities  who have just enough education to read the sporting pages of the newspapers."

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WAY UP ON CLINCH MOUNTAIN
This song has a thousand verses, perhaps going back to the Scotch of the 17th century, we are  told. It is the daddy, probably, of many of the Lulu songs. There is poetry, now wayward, now  wild, in these stanzas, of moods like Robert Burns and like Provencal balladists of France. Usually  singers keep to one tune throughout but I have heard singers make their independent variations with  some stanzas. At its best it delivers a character and parts of a life story.

1. Way up on Clinch Mountain,
I wander alone;
I'm as drunk as the devil,
Oh, let me alone!

2. I'll eat when I'm hungry,
En drink when I'm dry;
If whisky don't kill me,
I'll live till I die.

3 Rye whisky, rye whisky,
I know you of old,
You roh my poor pockets
Of silver and gold.

4 Rye whisky, rye whisky,
You're no friend to me.
You killed my old daddy,
God damn you, try me.

5 Jack o' diamonds, jack o' diamonds,
I know you of old,
You rob my poor pockets,
Of silver and gold.

B. WAY UP ON CLINCH MOUNTAIN

1. Way up on Clinch Mountain where the wild geese fly high,
I'll think of little Allie en lay down en die.

2 You may boast of yore knowledge, cri brag o' yore sense
Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence.
 
3. Oh Lulu, oh Lulu, oh Lulu, my dear,
I'd give the whole world if my Lulu was hyer. 

LIZA IN THE SUMMER TIME (She Died on the Train)
The arrangement of air and words here is based on a song heard by Charles Rockwood of  Geneva, Illinois, during a residence in North Carolina mountains. Lines from old British ballads  mingle with mountaineer lingo as in the word "mountings;" negro influence is not absent. This  may be an instance of the song that starts among people who have a tune, who want to sing, who join together on an improvisation, reaching out for any kind of verses, inventing, repeating, marrying  Scotch lyrics with black-face minstrel ditties; in the end comes a song that pleases them for their  purposes. Its mood varies here from the lugubrious to the light-hearted. The way to sing it is "as you like it."

LIZA IN THE SUMMER TIME


1. Liza in the summer time, Liza in the fall,
If I can't be Liza all the time, I won't be Liza 't all.

Chorus: Po' li'l' Liza, po' gal, po' li'l' Liza Jane,
Po' li'l' Liza, po' li'l' gal, she died on the train,
She died on the train, she died on the train.

2. When I go up in the mountings and give my horn a blow,
I think I hear my true love say, " Yonder comes my beau."

Chorus: Po' li'l' Liza, etc.

3 I wish I had my needle and thread fine as I can sew,
I'd sew my true love to my side and down the road we'd go.

Chorus: Po' li'l' Liza, etc.

4 Her face was of a ruddy hue, her hair a chestnut brown.
Her eyes were like a thunder cloud before the lain comes down.

Chorus: Po' liT Liza, etc.

 COON CAN (POOR BOY)
Of Fort Smith, Arkansas, we have heard, "There is no fort there and they have forgotten which  Smith it was named after" It is a town where they sing Coon Can and Poor Boy; either name is  correct, according to Kate Webber of Fort Smith and Chicago, who communicated the tune and  one verse, other verses coming by fast freight with no demurrage from Jack Hagerty of Los Angeles.  Its moral is plain: retribution overtakes the wrongdoer; years in the penitentiary are long. Folk  songs are often like this; they leave the hearer to piece out the story. . . . The boy is found  guilty of killing a woman. Why lie killed her, his excuses, and explanations, are not told. There  must have been extenuating circumstances, or the jury was impressed by the youthful aspect of the  prisoner at the bar, in addition to the mother's testimony that he was always a good boy.

 1 My mother called me to her deathbed side, these words she said to me:
"If your don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
They'll put you in the penitentiary, poor boy, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
If you don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary."

2. I sat me down to play coon can, could scarcely read my hand,
A thinkin* about the woman I loved, ran away with another man.
Ran away with another man, poor boy, ran away with another man.
I was thinkin' about the woman I loved, ran away with another man.

3. I'm a standin* on the corner, in front of a jewelry store,
Big policeman taps me on the back, says, "You ain't a goin* to kill no more."
Says, "You ain't a goin' to kill no more, poor boy," says, "You ain't a goin' to kill no more/
Big policeman taps me on the back, says, "You ain't a goin' to kill no more."

4. "Oh, cruel, kind judge, oh, cruel, kind judge, what are you goin' to do with me?"
"If that jury finds you guilty, poor boy, I'm goin' to send you to the penitentiary.
I'm goin' to send you to the penitentiary, poor boy, goin' to send you to the penitentiary.
If that jury finds you guilty, poor boy, I'm goin' to send you to the penitentiary."

5 Well, the jury found him guilty, the clerk he wrote it down,
The judge pronounced his sentence, poor boy; ten long years in Huntsville town.
Ten long years in Himtsville town, poor boy, ten long years in Huntsville town;
The judge pronounced his sentence, poor boy, ten long years in Huntsville town.

6 The iron gate clanged behind him, he heard the warden say,
"Ten long years for you in prison, poor boy, yes, it's ten long years for you this day.
Ten long years for you in prison, poor boy, yes, it's ten long years this day."
As the iron gate clanged behind him, that's what he heard the warden say.

GYPSY DAVY
A fragment of an old ballad lives on in versions of two verses or ten, with many varying accounts  of what happened between the two men and the one woman.

1 I was a high-born gentleman,
She was a high-born lady.
We lived in a palace great and tall,
Till she met with Gypsy Davy.

2. Last night she slept in a goose-feather bed,
With her arms around her baby.
Tonight she lies in the cold, cold ground
In the arms of her Gypsy Davy.

THE ROVING GAMBLER
Girls with a wild streak, in the farther yesterdays, often lost their hearts to the man in dapper clothes, with a big gold watch-chain across his vest, and with plenty of money. ("I don't care  where he gets it.") That the man was a stranger in town, that he was a gambler, that he introduced  himself saying, "Corne with me, girlie" were points in favor of his audacity, nerve. Such a couple, jack and queen, are briefly sketched in this song. The later chapters, whether she had to  take in washing, whether he was converted at a religious revival and set himself up in a respectable  business, we do not know. There is a swing and self-assurance to the tune and words, the swagger  of the old-tirne minstrel troupe going down Main Street arid around the public square, led by the  high-hat drum-major holding aloft a long baton with a golden ball gleaming on the end. In the  mischievous, Yonder Comes My Pretty Little Girl, text B, is an authentic folk song found by  R. W. Gordon on a southern tour. From Delancy's Songbook No. 23, we give the text C, with  repeated lines eliminated, of a piece called The Gamboling Man. This is evidently the popular  song of English origin from which the southern and western minstrel troupes made their verses,  Delaney tells us. We may note, in passing, that while gamblers may gambol and gambolers may  gamble, the English version carries no deck of cards.

1 I am a roving gambler, I've gambled all around,
Wherever I meet with a deck of cards I lie my money down.

2. I've gambled down in Washington and I've gambled over in Spain;
I am on my way to Georgia to knock down my last game.

3. I had not been in Washington many more weeks than three,
Till I fell in love with a pretty little girl and she fell in love with me.

4 She took me in her parlor, she cooled me with her fan,
She whispered low in her mother's ears, "I love this gambling man!'*

5 "O daughter, O dear daughter, how could you treat me so,
To leave your dear old mother and with a gambler go?"

6 "O mother, O dear mother, you know I love you well,
But the love I hold for this gambling man no human tongue can tell.

7 "I wouldn't marry a farmer, for he's always in the rain;
The man I want is the gambling man who wears the big gold chain.

8 "I wouldn't marry a doctor, he is always gone from home:
All I want is the gambling man, for he won't leave me alone.

9 "I wouldn't marry a railroad man, and this is the reason why;
I never seen a railroad man that wouldn't tell his wife a lie.

10 "I hear the train a -coming, she's coming around the curve,
Whistling and a-blowing and straining every nerve.

11 "O mother, O dear mother, I'll tell you if I can;
If you ever see me coming back again I'll be with the gambling man."

B . YONDER COMES MY PRETTY LITTLE GIRL

1 Yonder comes my pretty little girl, 
How do you know?
I know her by her bright apron strings
Hangin' down so low.

2 Yonder comes my pretty little girl,
She's a-goin' all dressed in red,
I looked down at her pretty little feet,
I wish my wife was dead.

3 O, I've gambled in the wildwoods,
I've gambled in the Lane;
I've gambled in the wildwoods
And I never lost a game.

C. THE GAMBOLING MAN

1 I am a roving traveler and go from town to town,
Whene'er I see a table spread so merrily I sit down.

2. I had not been traveling but a few days, perhaps three,
When I fell in love with a Ix>ndon girl, and she in love with me.

3.  She took me to her dwelling and cooled me with a fan.
She whispered low in her mother's ear, I love the gamboling man.

4 Oh, daughter, dear daughter, how could you treat me so,
To leave your poor old mother and with the gamboler go?

5 'Tis true I love you dearly, 'tis true I love you well,
But the love I have for the gamboling man no human tongue can tell.

6 So I'll bundle up my clothing, with him will leave my home,
I'll travel the world over wherever he may roam.

O BURY ME BENEATH THE WILLOW
"How docs the tune go?" a mountaineer was asked about a song. "It's sad-like", was his  reply. . . . Who that has looked at the night stars from under a weeping willow tree, can fail  to find here its saturated mournfulness, almost murmuring, "Pity me, weep with me over what I  had that's gone." The branches droop with a moist melancholy as though knowing a blessedness of tears. . . . Variants of this are heard in all states. ... It is old. . . . The tune  is from Jake Zeitlin, the text rounded out by verses from R. W. Gordon.

 O BURY ME BENEATH THE WILLOW

1 O bury me beneath the willow,
Beneath the weeping willow tree,
And when he comes he'll find me sleeping
And perhaps he'll weep for me.

2 Tomorrow was our wedding day,
But God only knows where he is.
He's gone, he's gone to seek another
He no longer cares for me.

3 My heart's in sorrow, I'm in trouble,
Grieving for the one I love
For oh, I know I'll never see him
Till we meet in Heaven above.

4 They told me that he did not love me,
But how could I believe them true
Until an angel whispered softly,
" He will prove untrue to you."

5 Place on my grave a snow-white lily
For to prove my love was true;
To show the world I died to save him
But his love I could not win.

6 So bury me beneath the willow,
Beneath the weeping willow tree,
And when he comes he'll find me sleeping
And perhaps he'll think of me.

MAG'S SONG
The cold winter night, the falling snow, the poor girl outside looking in, the rich man, hard-hearted and comfortable, letting the girl outside freeze to death : these classic devices of melodrama  are in Mag's Song. Kentuckians and Tennesseans, who formed a considerable part of the early  settlers of Iowa, probably brought this song to that state, where it was heard by Edwin Ford Piper.  It seems to be part of a ballad of thirty or forty stanzas of human woe from the Appalachians. Of  course, farther back, it traces to a broadside or a popular ballad in England or Scotland. By  cutting out all but two verses of this piece, we have the substance of a small melodrama that delivers  swiftly. It erects an immense stage, puts the two chief puppets through their actions, and keeps  "in character" to the finale. Alfred Wathall has created a tumultuous musical setting for it.  The text B w a variant called The Orphan Girl or No Bread for the Poor.

MAG'S SONG

1. The rich man lay on his velvet couch,
He ate from plates of gold;
A poor girl stood on the marble step,
And cried, "So cold, so cold!' 1

2 Three years went by and the rich man died;
He descended to fiery hell;
The poor girl lay in an angel's arms
And sighed, "All's wellall's well!"

B. THE ORPHAN GIRL or NO BREAD FOR THE POOR

1 "No home, no home," cried an orphan girl
At the door of a princely hall,
As she trembling stood on the polished steps
And leaned on the marble wall.

2 Her clothes were torn and her head was bare
And she tried to cover her foot
With her dress that was tattered and covered with snow,
Yes, covered with snow and sleet.

3 Her dress was thin and her feet were bare
And the snow had covered her head.
"Oh, give me a home," she feebly cried,
"A home and a piece of bread."

4 "My father, alas, I never knew."
Tears dimmed the eyes so bright.
"My mother sleeps in a new-made grave,
'Tis an orphan that begs to-night."

6 "I must freeze," she cried as she sank on the steps
And strove to cover her feet
With her ragged garments covered with snow,
Yes, covered with snow and si eel .

6 The rich man lay on his velvet couch
And dreamed of his silver and gold
While the orphan girl in her bed of snow
Was murmuring, "So cold, so cold."

7 The night was dark and the snow fell fast
As the rich man closed his door,
And his proud lips curled with scorn as he said,
"No bread, no room, for the poor."

8 The morning dawned but the orphan girl
Still lay at the rich man's door
And her soul had fled to that home above
Where there's bread and room for the poor.

I GOT A GAL AT THE HEAD OF THE HOLLER
This arrangement of Sourwood Mountain is based chiefly on one from Mary Leaphart. Company square dances, hoedowns, shindigs, or individual clogs and shuffles, work out to this tune.  A yodel in steady staccato, a piece of mountain born pleasantry and jubilation, it is out of the  human cloth from which Tom Jefferson wrote, "All men are free and equal", and should not be interfered with "in the pursuit of happiness." Those who make a song like this don't care a hoot  whether it is called good music. Their answer to any criticism might be, "Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-  ah-de-day." . . . This Kentucky version may trace to North Carolina mountains where  R. W. Gordon heard a verse as follows:

I have a lover in Sourwood,
She's gone cripply and blind,
She broke the heart of many a poor feller
But she ain't broke this'n of mine.

I GOT A GAL AT THE HEAD OF THE HOLLER

1 I got a gal at the head of the holler,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day;
She won't come and I won't f oiler;
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day.

8 Some of these days, before very long,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day;
I'll get a gal and a-home I'll run,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day.

2 She sits up with old Si Hall,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day;
Me and Jeff can't go there at all.
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day.

4 Big dog bark an* the little one'll bite you,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah -dee-day ;
Big gal court an' the little one'll marry you,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day.

5 Geese in the pond and ducks in the ocean,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day ;
Devil's in the women when they take a notion,
Ho-dee-ink-tum-diddle-ah-dee-day.

LONESOME ROAD
The lyric of a desperate heart swings into a cry of self-pity and a hymn of personal hate.  Waldron P. Webb of the Texas Folk Lore Society sang an early negro version of this for me one  evening in a dormitory of the University of Chicago. The verse ran

Look down, look down, dat lonesome road,
Hang down yo' haid and sigh,
You cause me to weep, you cause me to moan,
You cause me to leave mah home.
You cause me to leave mah home.

Webb sang it in imitation of an old nogro woman he had heard as a boy. The glides and twists,  the snarls and moans, cannot be compassed in musical notation; the devices for measuring  sound and indicating pitch are not yet available for writing scores for the more subtle negro vocal  performances. The white man, or the mulatto, takes such pieces and shades them to his own ways and likings. We have Lonesome Road here as it came to Pendleton, Indiana, to people who  passed it on to Lloyd Lewis. . . . "Your" is "yo\" "God" is "Gawd." The "r" is silent in  "'fore" and "heard." "Head** is "haid." ... It goes lugubriously, interthreaded with a  snarl. As a theme it is slow, grave, "moanish."

LONESOME ROAD

 1 Look down, look down that lonesome road,
Hang down your head an' sigh;
The best of friends must part some day,
An' why not you an' I,
An* why not you an' I?

I wish to God that I had died,
Had died 'fore I was born,
Before I seen your smilin' face
An' heard your lyin' tongue,
An' heard your lyin' tongue.

FOND AFFECTION
Sometimes it happens that lovely people write verses, lyrics, witli inadequate melodies. The  Kentucky mountain song, "Fond Affection," has a tune hardly worth record here but it does  have these striking stanzas.

1 The world's so wide I cannot cross it,
The sea's so deep I cannot wade,
I'll just go hire me a little boatman,
To row me across the stormy tide.

2. I give you back your ring and letters,
And the picture I have loved so well,
Arid henceforth we will meet as strangers,
But I can never say farewell.

3 There's only three things that I could wish for,
That is my coffin, shroud, and grave,
And when I'm dead please don't weep o'er me,
Or kiss the lips you once betrayed.

GO BRING ME BACK MY BLUE-EYED BOY
Here too is a " sad-like " tune. . . . And the words match the tune. . . . The seventh  verse is an addition by someone wanting a dash of horse sense to finish off the fatal childish romance.  . . . Text A and the tune are from Frances Ries, and text B, London City, from R. W. Gordon.

1. Go bring me back my blue-eyed boy,
Go bring my darling back to me,
Go bring me back the one I love,
And happy will I ever be.

2 Must I go bound while he goes free?
Must I love a man that don't love me?
Or must I act some childish part,
And die for the one that broke rny heart?

3 Late one night when her father came home,
Inquiring where his daughter had gone,
He went upstairs and the lock he broke,
And found her hanging by a rope.

4 He drew his knife and he cut her down,
He drew his knife and he cut her down,
He drew his knife and he cut her down,
Upon her breast these words he found.

5. Go dig my grave, go dig it deep,
Go dig my grave, go dig it deep,
Go dig my grave, go dig it deep,
And plant a rose at iny head and feet.

6 Upon my breast a turtle dove,
Upon my breast a turtle dove,
Upon my breast a turtle dove,
To show this world I died for love.

7 Around my grave go build a fence,
Around my grave go build a fence,
Around my grave go build a fence,
To show this world I had no sense.

B. LONDON CITY

1. London City where I used to dwell,
It's a railroad boy I loved so well,
He courted mo my heart away,
And with me he would not stay.

2. Go out this fair little town;
Take him a chair and sit right down,
Take other strange girls upon his knee,
And tell them things he won't tell me.

3. I don't sec the reason why
Unless they had more golden eyes.
Gold will melt, silver will fly,
I hope some day they will become as I.

4 She went on upstairs to fix her bed
Not a word to her mamma she said.
Mamma went off upstairs saying
Daughter dear, what is troubling you?

5 Oh, Mamma, Oh, Mamma, I dare to tell
It's the railroad boy I love so well,
He courted me my heart away
And with me would not stay.

6. Her papa came in from his work
Saying where is my daughter so dear,
Off upstairs he did go
And there found her hanging by a rope.

7 Upon her breast was a letter found
Saying, when you find me cut me down
Go dig my grave both wide and deep
And place a marble stone at my head and feet.

Upon my breast place a turtle dove,
To show this world I died for love.

THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
Railroad trains hurtling with smoke, fire, and thunder across peaceful landscapes at night,  rushing remorseless as fate along the iron rail pathways, holding to a fixed timetable and repeating  the performance every midnight or early morning "fo* day*' out of this the negro worker has  made a song that pounds home with the beats and accents of a Limited Express. The grind of flanges, steel burnishing steel hi a tireless syncopation, is here, in melody and overtone. . . .  All night long the trains weave; every night they repeat the weave; civilization hangs on the time  table. The "same train" runs, and always "all night long." ... A smokestack with a  maroon plume of sparks, a firebox square of crimson, the onruslung monotone of a strong, long-drawn locomotive whistle thus the tempo. ... In Montevallo at the State Teachers College  of Alabama they sing it; and there are variants at the University of Georgia, and at the State  Teachers College at Hattiesburg, Mississippi. . . . Additional verses may have the "same  train" carrying "sister," "brother," and so on.

1 The midnight train and the fo' day train 
Run all night long.
The midnight train and the fo' day train 
Run all night long.
They run until the break of day.

2. Twas the same train carried yo' mother 'way
Run all night long.
Twas the same train carried yo' mother 'way
Run all night long, 
They run until the break of day.

I DON'T LIKE NO RAILROAD MAN
This arrangement is based on the song given by Mary Leaphart, whose husband is the head of  the department of law at the University of Montana. Mrs. Leaphart is Kentucky born and spent  years among the mountain people who sing this; her performance of it is an impersonation; she  identifies herself with a character. It is to be sung staccato, nasal, abrupt, with contempt, yet with  nice control as though railroads come and railroads go but the mountains and us, the mountaineers, live on. We can almost see the mountaineers sitting in their cabin doorways watching the railroad  gangs come up the valley; they scorn the boasted oncoming civilization.

1 I don't like no railroad man,
Railroad man he'll kill you if he can,
I don't like no railroad man.

2 I don't like no railroad boss,
Railroad boss got a head like a boss,
I don't like no railroad boss.

3 I don't like no railroad fool,
Railroad fool got a head like a mule,
I don't like no railroad fool.