8. SINGING ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE

Though there were and are people in the Blue Ridge Country who, like Jilson Setters, the Singin' Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, can neither read nor write, such obstacles have meant no bar to their poetic bent. They sing with joy and sorrow, with pride and pleasure, of the scene about them, matching their skill with that of old or young who boast of book learning.

OF LAND AND RIVER

APPALACHIA

Clothed in her many hues of green, Far Appalachia rises high And takes a robe of different hue To match the seasons passing by.

Her summits crowned by nature's hand, With grass-grown balds for all to see, Her towering rocks and naked cliffs Hid by some overhanging tree.

In early spring the Maple dons Her bright red mantle overnight; The Beech is clad in dainty tan, The Sarvis in a robe of white.

The Red Bud in profusion blooms And rules the hills a few short days, And Dogwoods with their snowy white Are mingled with its purple blaze.

High on the frowning mountain side Azaleas bloom like tongues of flame, The Laurel flaunts her waxy pink, And Rhododendrons prove their fame.

Then comes the sturdy Chestnut tree With plumes like waving yellow hair, And Wild Grapes blossom at their will To scent the glorious mountain air.

But when the frost of autumn falls, Like many other fickle maids, She lays aside her summer robes And dons her gay autumnal shades.

Oh, Appalachia, loved by all! Long may you reign, aloof, supreme, In royal robes of nature's hues, A monarch proud—a mountain Queen.

—Martha Creech

BIG SANDY RIVER

Big Sandy, child of noble birth, Majestically you roll along, True daughter of the Cumberlands, With heritage of wealth and song.

Free as the hills from whence you came, In folklore and tradition bound, You seek the valleys deep and wide, With frowning forests girded round.

Descendants of a stalwart breed And fed by nature's lavish hand, You carry on your bosom broad The riches of a virgin land.

When ringing ax of pioneers The silence of the forests broke, Upon your rising crest you bore The poplar and the mighty oak.

The push boat launched by brawny arms And filled with treasure from the earth Has drifted on your current strong From out the hills that gave you birth.

And steamboats loaded to the hold You swept upon your swelling tide, 'Til fruits of sturdy, mountain toil Were scattered out both far and wide.

The Dew Drop plowed your mighty waves. From Catlettsburg to old Pike Town, To bring her loads of manmade gifts And carry homespun products down.

And Market Boy, that far-famed craft, Churned through the foam, her holds to fill, And proudly reared her antlered head A trophy rare of mountain skill.

—D. Preston

OLD TIME WATERFRONT

Come all you old-time rivermen And go along with me, Let's sing a song and give a cheer For the days that used to be.

Let's wander down to Catlettsburg And look upon the tide. We'll mourn the changes time has made There by the river side.

Gone is the old-time waterfront That rang with joy and mirth, And known throughout a dozen states As "the wettest spot on earth."

And Damron's famed Black Diamond, The logger's paradise, Where whiskey flowed like water And timbermen swapped lies.

Here Big Wayne ruled in splendor; His right, none would deny. And Little Wayne was always there To serve the rock and rye.

And Big Wayne never failed a friend, Or stopped to chat or lie, And no one entering his doors Was known to leave there dry.

And many a time some timberman Would land himself in jail, But Big Wayne always lent a hand, And went the wretch's bail.

Some of the buildings still are there, Along the old-time ways. Silent and dark their windows stare Gray ghosts of bygone days.

No sound of merriment or song, No dancing footsteps fall; The days of fifty years ago, Are gone beyond recall.

So to Big Wayne and Little Wayne, Big Sandy's pride and boast, And to the old-time waterfront, Let's drink a farewell toast.

While to the old-time timbermen, This song we'll dedicate, Who fought their battles with their fists, And took their whiskey straight.

—Coby Preston

WEST VIRGINIA

There is singing in the mountain where the sturdy hill folk meet, There is singing in the valleys where the days are warm and sweet, There is singing in the cities where the crowds of workers throng, Wherever we meet, no day is complete, for West Virginians without a song.

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song,

West Virginia, hear the singing of the crystal mountain streams, Songs of joy and songs of power to fulfill man's mightiest dreams, West Virginia, hear the singing of thy shadowed forest trees, Holding the winds, holding the floods, so that thy sons may be at ease.

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song.

—Esther Eugenia Davis

SKYLINE DRIVE

The Skyline Drive is not a road To bring you near the skies Where you can sit and gather clouds That flit before your eyes, Or jump upon a golden fleece And sail to paradise— But it is a super-mountain road Where you can feast your eyes Upon the beauties of the world The Lord God gave to man For his enjoyment and his use; Improve it if you can. The builders of this Skyline Drive Have filed no patent right That they improved upon God's plan, Nor have more power and might; But they have seen His handiwork, This panoramic view, Have paved this road to ease the load Of all the world and you. This is akin to hallowed ground, A sacred beauty shrine; Its fame has traveled all around; It now is yours and mine. There's little points of vantage—views, Where you can see afar— Compare the beauty with that land That stands with "Gates Ajar." The people who have given much To save this precious shrine Must surely all be friends of God And friends of yours and mine.

—George A. Barker

FEUD

THE LOVE OF ROSANNA McCOY

Come and listen to my story Of fair Rosanna McCoy. She loved young Jonse Hatfield, Old Devil Anse's boy.

But the McCoys and Hatfields Had long engaged in strife, And never the son of a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife.

But when they met each other, On Blackberry Creek, they say, She was riding behind her brother, When Jonse came along that way.

"Who is that handsome fellow?" She asked young Tolbert McCoy. Said he, "Turn your head, sister. That's Devil Anse's boy."

But somehow they met each other, And it grieved the Hatfields sore; While Randall, the young girl's father, Turned his daughter from the door.

It was down at old Aunt Betty's They were courting one night, they say, When down came Rosanna's brothers And took young Jonse away.

Rosanna's heart was heavy, For she hoped to be his wife, And well she knew her brothers Would take his precious life.

She ran to a nearby pasture And catching a horse by the mane, She mounted and rode like a soldier, With neither saddle nor rein.

Her golden hair streamed behind her, Her eyes were wild and bright, As she urged her swift steed forward And galloped away in the night.

Straight to the Hatfields' stronghold, She rode so fearless and brave, To tell them that Jonse was in danger And beg them his life to save.

And the Hatfields rode in a body. They saved young Jonse's life; But never, they said, a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife.

But the feud is long forgotten And time has healed the sting, As little Bud and Melissy This song of their kinsmen sing.

No longer it is forbidden That a fair-haired young McCoy Shall love her dark-eyed neighbor Or marry a Hatfield boy.

And the people still remember, Though she never became his bride, The love of these young people And Rosanna's midnight ride.

—Coby Preston

LEGEND

THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST

Through the southern mountains the Robin is often called the "Christ Bird" because of this legend. It is also called "Love Bird."

The Savior hung upon the cross, His body racked with mortal pain; The blood flowed from His precious wounds And sweat dropped from His brow like rain.

A crown of thorns was on His head, The bitter cup He meekly sips; His life is ebbing fast away, A prayer upon His blessed lips.

No mercy found He anywhere, He said, "My Father knoweth best." A little bird came fluttering down And hovered near his bleeding breast.

It fanned His brow with gentle wings, Into the cup it dipped its beak; And gazed in pity while He hung And bore His pain so calm and meek.

At last the bird it flew away And sought the shelter of its nest; Its feathers dyed with crimson stain, The Savior's blood upon its breast.

The lowly robin, so 'tis said, That comes to us in early spring, Is that which hovered near the cross And wears for aye that crimson stain.

—Martha Creech

JENNIE WYLIE

Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was a native of Ireland. They lived on Walker's Creek in what is now Tazewell County, Virginia. She was captured by the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimes called Adam Pre Vard Wiley.

Among the hills of old Kentucky, When homes were scarce and settlers few, There lived a man named Thomas Wylie, His wife and little children two.

They left their home in old Virginia, This youthful pair so brave and strong. And built a cabin in the valley Where fair Big Sandy flows along.

Poor Thomas left his home one morning, He kissed his wife and children dear; He little knew that prowling Indians Around his home were lurking near.

They waited in the silent woodland Till came the early shades of night; Poor Jennie and her young brother Were seated by the fireside bright.

They peeped inside the little cabin And saw the children sleeping there. These helpless ones were unprotected And Jennie looked so white and fair.

They came with tomahawks uplifted And gave the war whoop fierce and wild; Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby; They killed her brother—her oldest child.

They took poor Jennie through the forest And while they laughed in fiendish glee, A redskin took the baby from her And dashed out its brains against a tree.

They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio's shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more.

For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day.

Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie's name.

She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide. The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side.

Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold.

—Luke Burchett

MOUNTAIN PREACHER

When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year.

And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek.

I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good.

And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God's own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above.

Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy's people, Though your earthly form is molding 'neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God.

—D. Preston

CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS

This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.

Have you been to church in the mountains? 'Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow.

Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns.

So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord.

Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God.

Through years—it's been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade.

There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand.

They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God's love, Telling of home that's waiting In the mansions up above.

Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun.

—Jessie Stewart

MOUNTAIN DOCTOR

This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin' Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as classics."

A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago. The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay.

The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near.

The doctor owned a faithful horse, He rode him night and day; He had nothing but a bridle path To guide him on his way.

The panther was his dreadful foe, It often lingered near; The doctor always went well armed, He seemed to have no fear.

He made himself a nice warm coat From the pelt of a brown woolly bear; Often I loved to trace its length With eager hands through shaggy hair.

The forepaws fitted round his wrists, The hind parts reached to his thighs, And of the head he made a cap That sheltered both his ears and eyes.

The doctor dearly loved the woods, He was raised there from a child; He was very fond of old-time ways, If you scoffed them, he would chide.

He was good and sympathetic, He traveled night and day; He doctored many people, Regardless of the pay.

Nels Tatum Rice was his name, He was known for miles around; Far beyond the county seat, 'Long the Big Sandy up and down.

His mother wove his winter clothes, As a boy he'd case their furs; With them to the county seat, But once a year he'd go.

The merchant he would buy the fur, It gladdened the boy's heart. He had money in his jeans, When for home he did start.

Boys, them days was full of glee, Both husky, fat and strong. Nels very soon retraced his steps, It didn't take him long.

Safely, of home once more in sight, The boy quite glad did feel. For he could hear old Shep dog bark, Hear the hum of the spinning wheel.

—Jilson Setters

MOUNTAIN WOMAN

'Tain't no use a-sittin' here And peerin' at the sun, A-wishin' I had purty things, Afore my work is done. I best had bug the taters And fetch water from the run And save my time fer wishin' When all my work is done.

Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin' This morning on the hill, And taken him his rifle-gun And tonic fer his chill. Menfolks ain't got no larnin' And have no time to fill; Paw spends his days in huntin' Or putterin' round his still.

"'Tain't no use complainin'" Is the song the wood thrush sings, And I don't know of nothin' That's as sweet as what he brings. But I best had comb my honey And churn that sour cream, And listen to the wood thrush When I ketch time to dream.

Sometimes I feel so happy As I hoe the sproutin' corn; To hear, far off upon the ridge, The call of Paw's cow horn. Then I know it's time for milkin' And my long day's work is through, And I kin sit upon the stoop And make my dreams come true.

I'll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe, And some dishes, an ax and a saw: And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow And a new houn' dawg fer Paw.

—John W. Preble, Jr.

WOMAN'S WAY

You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say: I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair; I made it when my heart was light and gay. Like me, it's much the worse for time and wear. I used it first upon my marriage bed— And last, when Thomas, my poor man, lay dead.

This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed, My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year; I meant for her to claim it when she wed— Excuse me, Miss, I couldn't help that tear. She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud— Before the day, we used it for her shroud.

That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day, Before I married Tom, made that for me. A thrifty wife, I used to hear her say, Has kiverlids that all who come may see. She rests there on the knoll f'nenst the rise— The little grave is where my youngest lies.

Dove at the Window was my mother's make, Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one, Old Maid's Ramble and The Lady of the Lake I made for Ned, my oldest son. Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day. "Like Joseph's coat of many colors, Ma," he'd say.

The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister's make, She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill, Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux, She sits alone because it was her will. A wife she never would consent to be, For Jane, she loved the man that favored me.

—Martha Creech

MOUNTAIN SINGERS

What song is this across the mountain side, Where every leaf bears elements of Him Who is all music? Silences abide With rock and stone. A conscious seraphim Directs the measure, when the need of song Arrives to set the spirit free again. The Mountain Singers, traipsin' along To woody trail and a cabin in the rain, Bring native music fit to cut apart Old enemies with gunshot for the heart. With Singin' Gatherin' and Infare still intact, The Mountain Singers make of ghost, a fact.

—Rachel Mack Wilson

TRAGEDY

THE ASHLAND TRAGEDY

One Christmas morn in eighty-one, Ashland, that quiet burg, Was startled—the day had not yet dawned— When the cry of fire was heard.

For well they knew two fair ladies Had there retired to bed. The startled crowd broke in, alas, To find the girls both dead.

And from the hissing, seething flames Three bodies did rescue; Poor Emma's and poor Fannie's both, And likewise Bobby's too.

And then like Rachel cried of old The bravest hearts gave vent, And all that blessed holiday To Heaven their prayers were sent.

Autopsy by the doctors show'd The vilest of all sin, And proved to all beyond a doubt Their skulls had been drove in.

And other crimes too vile to name; I'll tell it if I must; A crime that shocks all common sense, A greed of hellish lust.

An ax and crowbar there was found Besmeared with blood and hair, Which proved conclusively to all What had transpired there.

Two virgin ladies of fourteen, The flower of that town, With all their beauty and fond hopes, By demons there cut down—

Just blooming into womanhood, So lovely and so true; Bright hopes of long and happy days With morals just and pure.

Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth, Was scarcely known to fail, And in ten days had the assassins All safely placed in jail.

George Ellis, William Neal and Craft, Some were Kentucky's sons, Near neighbors to the Gibbons' house And were the guilty ones.

In this here dark and bloody ground They were true types indeed, Of many demons dead and dam'd Who fostered that same greed.

A hellish greed of lust to blast The virtuous and fair, To gratify that vain desire No human life would spare.

There Emma Thomas lay in gore, A frightful sight to view; Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp, And Bob, her brother, too.

Bob was a poor lame crippled boy, Beloved by everyone; His mother's hope, his sister's joy, A kind, obedient son.

At that dread sight the mother's grief No mortal tongue can tell. A broken heart, an addled brain, When all should have been well.

Both her dear children lying there, Who once so merry laughed. There stiff and stark in death they lay, Cut down by Ellis Craft.

That dreadful demon, imp of hell, Consider well his crime; Although he was a preacher's son, Has blackened the foot of time.

—Peyton Buckner Byrne

This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne of Greenup, Greenup County, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the murdered girl's name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early '80's in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoins Greenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because of the many hangings which occurred there in the days of the Civil War. Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in that County and one of his scholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the old schoolteacher's ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd County, not far from Ashland where he committed the crime.

THE MORAL OF THE BALLAD

There's a sad moral to this tale. Now pass the word around; Pull off your shoes now and walk light; Ashland is holy ground.

Bill Neal he came from Virginia, A grand and noble State, But his associates were bad And he has shared their fate.

Bill Neal he saw Miss Emma Thomas, So beautiful and fair That all his hellish greed of lust Seemed to be centered there.

Bill Neal he was a married man, Had children and a wife; And ofttimes bragged what he would do, If it should cost his life.

Bill Neal done what he said he would, And yet a greater sin; Then with a great big huge crowbar Broke Emma's skullbones in.

Yes, Bill Neal done just what he said, And yet that greater sin, For which the gates of Heaven closed And will not let him in.

Now while his victim is in Heaven, Where all things are done well, There with the angels glorified, Bill Neal will go to hell.

THE DEATH OF MARY PHAGAN

Leo M. Frank, manager of the pencil factory, was a Jew. Sentiment ran high against him at the time of the murder. This ballad was composed by young Bob Salyers of Cartersville, Georgia, who heard the story on all sides. He could neither read nor write.

Come listen all ye maidens, A story I'll relate Of pretty Mary Phagan And how she met her fate.

Her home was in Atlanta And so the people say, She worked in a pencil factory To earn her meager pay.

She went down to the office One April day, it's said; The next time that they saw her, Poor Mary, she was dead.

They found her outraged body— Oh, hear the people cry— "The fiend that murdered Mary Most surely he must die."

James Conley told the story, "'Twas Leo Frank," he said, "He strangled little Mary And left her cold and dead."

Now Frank was tried for murder, His guilt he did deny. But the jury found him guilty And sentenced him to die.

His life he paid as forfeit; And then there came a time Another man lay dying, And said he did the crime.

We do not know for certain, But in the Judgment Day, We know that God will find him And surely make him pay.

—Bob Salyers

THE FATE OF EFFIE AND RICHARD DUKE

Oh, hearken to this sad warning, You husbands who love your wife, Don't never fly in a passion And take your companion's life.

Of Doctor Rich Duke I will tell you, Who lived up Beaver Creek way, He married fair Effie Allen And loved her well, so they say.

Both Effie and Rich had money, But he was much older than she, And she said, "All your lands and money Should be deeded over to me."

His wife he loved and trusted And he hastened to obey; But the fact he soon regretted That he deeded his riches away.

They quarreled and then they parted, The times were more than three, For both of them were stubborn And they never could agree.

Now Doctor John, his brother, Was a highly respected man, He brought Effie home one evening, Saying, "Make up your quarrel if you can."

And Rich seemed glad to see her, And followed her up the stair, But only God and the angels Know just what happened there.

Doctor John was down at the table When he heard the pistol roar; He ran up the stairs in a moment And looked in at the open door.

Poor Rich lay there by his pistol With a bullet through his brain, And Effie lay there dying Writhing in mortal pain.

They were past all human succor, No earthly power could save; And they took their secrets with them To the land beyond the grave.

Now all you wives and husbands, Take heed to this warning true. Never quarrel over lands and money Or some day the fact you will rue.

—Coby Preston

THE FATE OF FLOYD COLLINS

This ballad was composed in 1925 by Jilson Setters, when Floyd Collins was trapped in a salt mine near Mammoth Cave, Kentucky.

Come all you friends and neighbors And listen to what I say, I'll relate to you a story, Of a man who passed away. He struggled hard for freedom, His heart was true and brave, While his comrades they were toiling His precious life to save.

His name was Floyd Collins, Exploring he did crave. But he never dreamed that he'd be trapped In a lonely sandstone cave. His entrance it was easy, His heart was light and gay, But his mind was filled with trouble When he found he'd lost his way.

He wandered through the cavern, He knew not where to go, He knew he was imprisoned, His heart was full of woe. He started for the entrance That he had passed that day. A large and mighty boulder Had slipped down in his way.

The stone was slowly creeping But that he did not know, Underneath he found an opening He thought that he could go. He soon got tired and worried, He soon then had to rest, The boulder still was creeping, It was tightening on his chest.

He lost all hopes of freedom, No farther could he go; His agony was desperate, That you all well know. His weeping parents lingered near; A mother gray and old. Soon poor Floyd passed away And heaven claimed his soul.

A note was in his pocket, The neighbors chanced to find; These few lines were written While he had strength and mind: "Give this note to mother, Tell her not to cry; Tell her not to wait for me, I will meet her by and by."

—Jilson Setters

This ballad was written by fifty-year-old Adam Crisp who lived in Fletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Collins' death. Crisp could neither read nor write but composed many ballads.

FLOYD COLLINS' FATE

Come all you young people And listen to what I tell: The fate of Floyd Collins, Alas, we all know well. His face was fair and handsome, His heart was true and brave, His body now lies sleeping In a lonely sandstone cave.

How sad, how sad the story, It fills our eyes with tears, His memory will linger For many, many a year. His broken-hearted father Who tried his boy to save Will now weep tears of sorrow At the door of Floyd's cave.

Oh, mother, don't you worry, Dear father, don't be sad; I'll tell you all my troubles In an awful dream I had; I dreamed that I was prisoner, My life could not be saved, I cried, "Oh! must I perish, Within the silent cave?"

The rescue party gathered, They labored night and day To move the mighty boulder That stood within the way. "To rescue Floyd Collins!" This was the battlecry. "We will never, no, we will never Let Floyd Collins die."

But on that fatal morning The sun rose in the sky, The workers still were busy, "We will save him by and by." But, oh, how sad the evening, His life they could not save, His body then was sleeping Within the lonely cave.

Young people all take warning With this, for you and I, We may not be like Collins, But you and I must die. It may not be in a sand cave In which we find our tomb, But at that mighty judgment We soon will find our doom.

—Adam Crisp

PATRIOT

IT'S GREAT TO BE AN AMERICAN

For long years the members of the Hamm family in Rowan County, Kentucky, both old and young, have gathered on a Sunday in the month of August for their mountain Eisteddfod. Upon this occasion there is friendly rivalry as to whose ballad or poem is best, who speaks his composition best. And the prize, you may be sure, is not silver but a book of poems. This composition of Nannie Hamm Carter was read at their mountain Eisteddfod in August, 1940.

It's great to be an American, And live on peaceful shores, Where we hear not the sound of marching feet, And the war-clouds come no more. Where the Statue of Liberty ever stands, A beacon of hope for all, Heralding forth to every land That by it we stand or fall.

It's great to be an American, For wherever we may go, It is an emblem of truth and right, A challenge to every foe. It's great to be free and unfettered, And know not wars or strife, Where man to man united, Can live a carefree life,

While men are falling hour by hour Upon some foreign shore Amidst the roar of battle there, Ne'er to return no more. They're offered as a sacrifice, Upon the altar there, With no one there to sympathize, Or shed for them a tear.

Where men are marching 'mid the strife, Where there, day after day, There's danger and there's loss of life Where conquerors hold sway. They bow to rulers' stern commands, They face the deadly foe, While far away in other lands, There's sorrow, pain and woe.

But not so in America, The birthplace of the free. For 'midst the conflict Over There, With loss of life and liberty, It's a privilege to know, That in a world, so fraught with pain, We feel secure from every foe Where naught but fellowship remains.

For in our free country, We hear not the battlecry, We hear not the bugle's solemn call, When men go forth to die. For over all this land of ours The Stars and Stripes still wave, Waving forth in triumph O'er this homeland of the brave.

Hats off! to our own America, With pride we now can say, We bow not down to rulers, For justice still holds sway. God keep us free from scenes like those That are in other lands, Where the shell-shocked and the wounded Are there on every hand.

So, it's great to be an American, We'll stand by our flag always, For right shall not perish from the earth As long as truth holds sway; As long as her sons are united In a cause that's just and true, The bells of freedom still will ring, Ring out for me and you.

—Nannie Hamm Carter

SAD LONDON TOWN

Jilson Setters composed and set to tune this ballad and sang it at the American Folk Song Festival in June, 1941, to the delight of a vast audience. To the surprise of some he pronounces the word bomb, bum, like his early English ancestors.

Eight years ago I took a trip, I decided to cross the sea; I spent some weeks in London, Everything was strange to me.

The city then was perfect peace, They had no thought of fear, Soon then the bombs began to fall, The airplanes hovered near.

The people cannot rest at night, Danger lingers nigh, Bombs have dropped on many homes, The innocent had to die.

The flying glass cut off their heads, Their hands and noses too; Folks then had to stand their ground, There was nothing else to do.

English folks are brave and true, But do not want to fight. The Germans slip into their town And bomb their homes at night.

They watch the palace of the King, They watch it night and day; They have a strong and daring guard To keep the foe at bay.

—Jilson Setters

The aged fiddler also composed and set to tune the following ballad called—

BUNDLES FOR BRITAIN

Two little children toiled along A steep and lonely mountain road, They heeded not the bitter cold But proudly bore their precious load.

I asked them where they might be bound And what their heavy load might be. They said, "We're going to the town To send our load across the sea.

"For, far away on England's shore, Our own blood kin still live, you know; They fight to stay the tyrant's hand That threatens freedom to o'erthrow.

"And many little homeless ones Are cold and hungry there today, 'Tis them we seek to feed and clothe And every night for them we pray.

"Some of them reach our own dear land, While others perish in the sea; And we must help and comfort them Until their land from war is free."

Oh, may we like these children face The curse of hate and war's alarm With faith and courage in our hearts And Britain's Bundles 'neath our arms.

—Jilson Setters

SERGEANT YORK

His own favorite ballad, however, is that which he composed and set to tune several years ago about Sergeant Alvin C. York, who is Jilson Setters' idea of "a mountain man without nary flaw."

'Way down in Fentress County in the hills of Tennessee Lived Alvin York, a simple country lad. He spent his happy childhood with his brothers on the farm, Or at the blacksmith shop with busy dad.

He could play a hand of poker, hold his liquor like a man, He did his share of prankin' in his youth; But his dying father left him with the family in his care, And he quickly sought the ways of God and truth.

Then came the mighty World War in the year of seventeen, And Uncle Sam sent out his call for men. Poor Alvin's heart was heavy for he knew that he must go, And his Church contended "fighting was a sin."

He never questioned orders and did the best he could, And soon a corporal he came to be; He was known throughout the country as the army's fighting ace, Beloved in every branch of infantry.

The eighth day of October the Argonne battle raged, Machine guns whined and rifle bullets flew; Then Alvin lost his temper, he said, "I've had enough, I'll show these Huns what Uncle Sam can do."

He took his army rifle and his automatic too, And hid himself behind a nearby tree; He shot them like he used to shoot the rabbits and the squirrels Away back home in sunny Tennessee.

He took the whole battalion—one-hundred-thirty-two— While thirty-five machine guns ceased to fire; And twenty German soldiers lay lifeless on the ground As he marched his prisoners through the bloody mire.

His name was not forgotten, a hero brave was he, Our country proudly hailed his fearless deeds; He was offered fame and fortune but for these he did not care, His daily toil supplied his simple needs.

"I want nothing for myself" he said, "but for the boys and girls, Who live here in the hills of Tennessee, I'd like to have a school for them to teach them how to farm And raise their families in security."

His wish was quickly granted. At Jamestown, Tennessee, There stands a school, the mountains' joy and pride; And with his wife and children in the hills he loves so well, He hopes in peace forever to abide.

—Jilson Setters

A Tennessee mountaineer, who is proud of his "wight of learning" according to his own words, "put together" this ballad which he calls—

NORRIS DAM

At Norris Dam, our Uncle Sam Has wrought a mighty deed. He built a dam, did Uncle Sam, So "all who run may read."

He saw the "writing on the wall"— Called the soothsayers in. Soothsayers all, both great and small Said, "It would be a sin—

"To let the things God wrought for man Stand idle all the years. But use God's knowledge (in a can), Soothsaying engineers."

And so, this miracle today You see with your own eyes, Was planned ten million miles away— In "mansions in the skies."

That pigeonhole is empty there; Now we employ that plan For use and pleasure, down here, where 'Twill be a boon to man.

So day by day in every way, At least we're getting wise; And now we play—as well we may— On playgrounds from the skies.

So let us give a rousing cheer For our dear Uncle Sam, Whose mighty arm reached way up there And brought down Norris Dam.

—George A. Barker

THE DOWNFALL OF PARIS

Oh, come all ye proud and haughty people, Behold a nation plunged in gloom, A country filled with pain and sorrow Since that great city met its doom.

They had no thought of this disaster; The Maginot Line could never fail. Then came the downfall of proud Paris; Oh, hear the people mourn and wail.

Oh, see the horror and destruction, When death came flying through the air. The people vainly sought a refuge; Oh, friends, take warning and beware.

They hear the sound of alien footsteps, The soldiers marching side by side Among the ruins of that great city, A mighty nation's boast and pride.

Oh, let us then be wise and careful, And strive to keep our country free; For war is cruel to the helpless, The weak must pay the penalty.

God help the rulers of the nations! What is in store, no tongue can tell; But keep in mind the simple story— The Line was broke and Paris fell.

—Coby Preston