Frank Proffitt Sings Folk Songs- Liner notes w/lyrics
FOLKWAYS RECORDS Album No. FA 2360
© 1962 Folkways Records & Service .Corp., 17 W. 60th St., NYC
Frank Proffitt Sings Folk Songs
Frank Proffitt FW02360
A native of Beech Mountain in the northwest corner of North Carolina, singer and banjo player Frank Proffitt's tremendous repertoire inspired musicians interested in old time music. This collection features local ballads, and its liner notes contain copious quotations and anecdotes from Proffitt.
Year of Recording 1962
Folkways Records
Source Archive Smithsonian Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage
Credits Produced by Frank Warner Artist Frank Proffitt Recorded by Sandy Paton
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
101 Beaver Dam Road 1:26
102 Cindy 2:16
103 Bo Lamkin 4:08
104 Julie Jenkins 1:46
105 George Collins 2:24
106 Ninety and Nine 3:23
107 Down in the Valley 2:46
201 Baby-O 1:37
202 Old Abe 3:31
203 Poor Ellen Smith 1:50
204 Dan Doo 1:55
205 John Hardy 2:27
206 Ground Hog 1:56
207 Johnson Boys 1:46
FRANK PROFFITT SINGS FOLK SONGS
Recorded by Sandy Paton
Edited by Frank Warner
Frank Proffitt and his family (except Oliver) in the new home he built around 1950. Frank, Bessie, Ronald, Franklin, Phyllis, Eddie and Gerald. (1960)
by Anne and Frank Warner
Frank Proffitt has been our friend since 1938 when we met him at the home of his father-in-law, Nathan Hicks, on our first visit to "the Beech" -- Beech Mountain in the Blue Ridge section of the Appalachian chain in the northwest corner of North Carolina. We began our serious collecting experience with Frank, who taught us two songs on that first visit. One of them -- Dan Doo -- he sings on this recording. Over the years, he gave us many more -maybe a couple of hundred--more than any other person we have sung with. Frank Warner has sung Frank's songs, and talked about Frank, from one end of America to the other (and on a number of recordings), and we are proud and happy that now Frank's own voice can be heard singing the songs he learned from his father, his mother, his aunts and uncles, and from other folks in his music-rich area. Frank has a tremendous storehouse of these songs, and he sings and plays them in the heartstirring mountain style that creates a feeling deep in one's bones -- as if long-forgotten pioneer memories were there to be awakened.
Frank has a very special understanding of his heritage and an unusual appreciation for the old ways of his people. He is proud, as he ought to be, of the ways of his folks (and they are our folks, too, for they settled our country) -- the rugged, hearty stock that came into our Carolina mountains in the late 18th century and licked the wild ridges and stayed right there. The feel of the mountains got into their bloodstream and they passed it along to their descendants. Mountain life is hard but beautiful, and mountain people are reserved and dignified, but friendly. We admire their dignity, and we have long basked in the warmth of their friendship too -- look forward each summertime to visit with Frank and Bessie and the five younger Proffitts in their snug house that Frank built a dozen years ago to replace the mountain cabin where we first visited them. Farther up the mountain behind Frank's house is his father's old house, now his workshop for banjo making. In between carpentry jobs and his farming, Frank works here where his father lived, making banjos and dulcimers after his father's patterns.
It is while he is working, Frank says, that the words of songs he has been trying to remember come to him most easily. Here, when he is alone, he can almost hear Wiley and Noah Proffitt and Aunt Nancy Prather and the others. We like to sit there with him. Mountain life in the Beaver Dam section where Frank lives has electricity now, and electric refrigeration and TV and school busses and good roads -- if they do make hairpin turns, or worse, in getting across a mountain.
If you stop at Sugar Grove to ask the way to Frank's place, the man at the store may say, as he once did to us, "Keep going over George's Gap until you get to Bethel Church. When you can see your own tail lights going around a bend, you'll know you're nearly there." Frank grew up in the old way, though, and he remembers more of the joys of the old days than their hardships. Frank's father, Wiley Proffitt, never say a town of any kind until he was past middle age. Frank never did, either, until he was 14, when he and some other boys walked barefoot over the mountains to Mountain City, Tennessee. Frank once told J.C. Brown (who took the more recent photographs in this folder and who wrote a feature article on Frank and his banjo making in the Carolina Farmer) that his, father "was always busy, but never hurrying. He lived about as interesting a life as one could ask for. Along with his brother and sister, they always had time to talk far into the night about happenings of long ago. The many hair raising tales of the Civil War, and of their father's part in it all. I never got over my love of these kinds of things."
As a little boy Frank sat on the hearth by the fire and listened, and remembered. Sitting there quietly one day while the grownups were a-talkin' and a-pickin', he saw one of the men had a broken shoe, and through the hole in the top of the shoe his big toe kept time to the music. Frank says that was the first time he ever realized music had a rhythm or a "beat!"
In most of the songs on this recording, Frank accompanies his sLneing by playing one of his own fivestring, fretless wooden banjos--made just the way he remembers his father making them. (He makes dulcimers, too, to his father's pattern, and uses one to accompany two songs on this recording.) Most interesting are Frank's own words about his banjo and banjo making. This quotation is a composite from various letters on the subject, written to us, to J.C. Brown (mentioned above), and to Gary Ferraro, a student at Hamilton College who, through us, became so interested in the mountain banjo that he wrote a term paper on it, with Frank Proffitt's help.
"My interest in the banjoes started very early because I had an ear for music which was sort of gifted to me. My earliest memory was of waking up on a wintry morning and hearing my father picking- in a &low mournful way. The shavings and smell of the fresh wood, the going along to the woods to get the wood, the tuning up for the first time the new Banjo, will always be good memories for me."
"As a boy I recall going along with Dad to the woods to get the timber for banjo-making. He selected a tree by its appearance and by sounding- a timber cutter's term of speech in describing hitting a tree with a hammer or axe broad-sided, to tell by the sound if it's straight grained, sound, shaky, faulty, or hollow. I do this myself also... I can't describe it in words but I see inside the tree by the sound of hitting it ..."
"My father would cut the tree down and saw it up in neck lengths. Then set the blocks on their ends and layoff in squares. This is my way also, using a maul and wedges to split the squares for banjo necks. I then as Dad taught me, stick the squares in ricks to air dry for 6 months or more- after that they are taken and put over a stove or fireplace to kiln dry... "
After describing the shaping of the head and the putting together of the banjo, Frank wrote,
"As I watched my father shaping the wood for a new banjo. I wanted to rush him in his work so that I could hear the sound. When the strings were put on and the pegs turned, and musical notes begun to fill the cabin, I looked upon my father as truly the greatest man on earth for creating such a wonderful thing out of a piece of wood, a greasy skin, and some strings...
"So it is true the banjo has been the lightener of loads for the mountain man. When he wanted to feel Jolly he could pick "Going up Cripple Creek, all in a run." When he wanted to feel mournful he could sing and play of the Turtle Dove off in yonder tall Pine, or lift his eyes up in The Pore Wayfaring Pilgrim."
Sandy Paton, in his tribute to Frank in this folder, mentions Tom Dula and the Tom Dooley song, lately (1958-9) the top of the hit parade. Frank taught us Tom Dooley some 22 years ago. Frank Warner sang it on programs throughout the intervening
years and included it on a recording, with notes, of course, about Frank Proffitt. Alan Lomax published it, with cridits to Proffitt and Warner, in Folksong, USA. And then look what happened to it!
Old Tom has meant a lot to Frank, though not (as Sandy points out) in the way some people think. It hasn't meant a lot of money. But wide-spread interest in the song, and its origins, has opened a path to Frank's door and opened many new interests
to him. He never knows, these days, what may arrive in the mail, or who may come to see him on his mountainside. He has made an old-time gourd banjo for a documentary film on Colonial Williamsburg, articles have been written about him, and early this year Frank Proffitt and Frank Warner sang together at the Chicago University Folk Festival. Many people, these days, want
"an original Frank Proffitt banjo."
Now, happily, the growing interest in authentic folk music--and in Frank--has brought Frank a visit from Sandy Paton, who made this recording. We are delighted that Sandy, with his deep understanding and appreciation of Frank as a man and as a currier of traditional music, has caught the spirit of Frank and his music so well in this 'Folkways recording.
--- by Sandy Paton ---
It was dark so Frank Proffitt and I carried the recording equipment up to "the old heuBe" on the hill behind his home. The katydids were in full chorus to warn us, as the mountain saying goes, of frost to come in forty days. Frank, going ahead to lead the way, stretched his long legs into a ground-covering stride. Moving silently through the dense underbrush as though his eyes could penetrate the light.
When we reached the split-rail fence near the barn, he turned. "Better let me take the machine the rest of the way." I started to protest. After all, he was the artist I had come to record; it was my job to curry the load. "No," he insisted, ignoring my gasps for breath, "it'll be safer with me. It gets pretty rough up ahead and I know the path." He took the fifty-pound recorder out of my ams and hoisted it easily to his shoulder. "I'm sort of what they call a 'whitleather' man, anyway," he smiled. I claubered over the fence and looked up just in time to see him disappear, effortlessly, into the darkness.
Whit-leather. You probably won't find it in a dictionary, but you could have come across it in a boarding-house stew. It's
the name the mountain people have for the touch, white akin that lines the inside of the rib-cage on a beef.
Whit - white - whit-leather - Whitsunday. An ancient usage. "Up here, it ain't until a man gets to the hard, skin-and-bone stage, the whit-leather stage, that he's considered to have reached his full strength."
Frank Froffitt is a whit-leather man. Long-faced, lean, siney-tough and bone-hard, he gives the impression of being taller than he actually is. A soft-spoken, thoughtful man, when Frank speaks it is because he has something to say. His is a wisdom born of long hours of patient observation and study. Both man and nature have come under his quiet, perceptive gaze end he knowa both well.
"I like people, you understand, but I look forward to coming up here to 'the old house' where I make the banjos and dulcimers.
Sometimes I'll spend the whole day up here, alone. Givea me a chance to think things out. I rackon you might call me a loner."
Then he smiled and his long, sombre face, which, in repose, might be that of an ancient prophet, suddenly radiated with an almost pixy-like glee. I began to see the range of the man - began to understand how he could sing the light, humor'ous songs of mountain courtship and moonshine whiskey, as well aa the long, tragic ballads. We cleared a space on his workbench for the reo order and, while I readied the microphone, Frank began tuning up the banjo.
"Hope this doean't turn out to be one of those times when I just oan't seem to make a banjo sound in tune. Sometime I'll oome home trom work, piok up the banjo, and it'll sound just right to me. Another time, I'll struggle with it for an hour and still not be satisfied. That ever happen to you?" He cooked his head to listen, twisting the wooden pegs with his thick, working-man's fingers. A few strums, another adjustment, and, finally satisfied with the tuning, he glanced up to see if I were ready. I nodded end punched a couple of buttons.
Frank Froffitt drew a deep breath, hunched forward over his home-made, fretless banjo, lifted his head toward some distant
mountain only he could see, and the desp voice began to outline the story of Bo Lamkin, murderous mason of long ago
Later, taking a break, We talked of the Folk Featival at the University of Ohioago, where we had first met. When I first walked in there and sawall those Bluegrass fellows with their big, white hats and their fancy banjos --- me with my old home-made one under my arm -- I thought to myself, 'What am I doing hereT' For a minute I figured maybe I ought to try to do a few extra licks -- maybe that was what was expected of me. Then I decided, no, I'd just get up there end do what I do. I'd be myself and if' they liked it, fine. If they didn't, well, I could just come on back here to the mountains and forget the whole thing."
Asked what he thought of Scruggs picking, Frank thought for a long moment, then looked up at me very seriously. ·I'd
like to be able to do it," he drawled, "and then not do it." I knew what he meant.
About commercial "hill-billy" music makers: "They're not mountain men. They don't care about tradition. They're the ones who went down out of these mountains and started trying to earn a lot of money by making fun of the backhouse --- by making fun of their mothers!" I caught a glimpse of the wrath inside this quiet mountain man and, once again, I understood.
Frank Froffitt is devoted to the tradition he has inherited, a tradition he fully understands. While I know I'm not much, musically speaking, I do what I am able, trying to keep to the oril!, i ns l as hanied me from other days." It was nearly two A.M. when we stopped. I had trouble with a defective tape and mentioned to Frank that it was guaranteed. The company agreed to replace it, at any rate. He compared this with the guarantee on apple trees. "You plant 'em, then you wait six years. If it turns out the apples aren't good enough to market , the company will buy you new trees. Then all you have to do is wait another six years."
That led to talk of farming. "I raised snap-beans for awhile. Used to be a good cash crop. Then it got so you couldn't depend on the market. Hard work, too. You'd work all day pickin' 'em then drive all night gettin' 'em to market. I got so tired I stumbled when I walked and still I stayed poor as a whip-or-will."
About the occasional tobacco crop that fails: "You never saw a more pitiful sight than a bunch of kids stand ng alongside their whole year's work and the buyer just lookin' at 'em, shaking his head. Wouldn't even bid on it.
He talked of cutting timber on the steep mountainsides, of logrollings in the old days when thousands ul,on thou"anos of feet of fine southern hardwoods "ere piled up and burned to clear new grour-d for crops. Frank shook his head sadly. A sensitive man, he sees more than his neighbors see. Although he had to leave school after the sixth grade to go to work, he has taught himself so well that his friends, even those who finished high school, bring their income-tax problems to him.
Frank works es a carpenter now, raising 6/10ths of an acre of tobacco and some strawberries on the side. Still, every time
the Bchool term begins, it's hard to acral'e Ul' the cash for the kids' books and fees. Last year, selling the hand-made
banjos and dulcimers helped quite a bit.
'Some of the people around here think I got a lot of money from the Tom Dula song. Well, I have got a little, that's true, but the other day I was driving fast a group of boys end heard one of them say 'There goes the man that made ten thousand dollars off of Tom Dooley.' Truth is, I had just seventy-five cents in my pocket at that time and five kids getting ready for school."
It was nearly dawn. I drove back over the winding road to Sugar Grove. We had talked for several hours and, even then,
I had been reluctant to leave. Frank froffitt was a man I wanted to know. I found myself wondering what it would be
like to wander with him along those high mountain ridges he knows so well -- hunting groundhogs, maybe, for the hides
from which he makes the banjo-heads. One would really have to step to keep up with this long-legged man for who:n the mountains have always been home.
Burlington, Vermont
September, 1961
Sandy Paton
Notes About the Songs - by Anne and Frank Warner
SIDE I, Band 1:
BEAVER DAM ROAD
This wonderful. local. song borrows the refrain ''Hard. times, poor boy" (used in many a jailhouse song and other laments) -- but nothing else. Frank says the sheriff caught a fellow making a little whiskey and took him over to the Boone Jail. While he was there he made up some of the verses of this song and he and the other inmates sang it to pass the time. Since then it has
traveled the countryside and others have added more verses. They are still doing it. "You will find different versions around. about. I think it's everybody's song now."
Beaver Dam Road, in the song, is in Beaver Dam Township in Watauga County, where Frank lives. Traveling through the country one will find nany a Beaver Dam Road. There's even one on Long Island. Maybe the outlanders won't know that the product of mountain stills was "put up" in fruit jars, like any other home produce. Frank first sang this song for us about 1940.
BEAVER DAM ROAD
I didn't have no hog to kill,
I vent and set me up a little bitty still,
It's bard times on the Beaver Dam Road.,
Hard times, poor boy.
Along come a man in a Chevrolet car,
He's lookin' for the man with the old fruit jar,
It's hard times on the Beaver Dam Road,
Hard times, poor boy.
He took me to Boone and he put me in jail,
I had nobody for to go my bail;
It's bard times on the Beaver Dam Road,
It's hard times, poor boy.
Got a letter from my wife, she's farin' awful good,
Had a man a-diggin' 'taters and choppin' the wood;
It's bard times on tbe Beaver Dam Road,
Hard times, poor boy.
Noll' listen to me, fellers, wherever you are,
Don't go totin' 'round. the old fruit jar.
It's bard times on tbe Beaver Dam Road,
Hard times, poor boy.
SIDE I, Band 2: CINDY
This is an ante-bellum minstrel song tbat has eVer'since been popular with traditional singers, and now is known in some form, or just as a tune, to all Americans who like to square dance. Through the years the song has picked up additional verses,
or lost those it once bad, and other songs or song fragments have attached themselves to its refrain. For details see notes in Brown, Vol. 3, p. 482.
CINDY
I went up on the mountain
I 'lowed I'd have some tun,
I waited all day, I waited all night
And Cindy never come.
Git along home, Cindy, Cindy,
Git along home,
Git along home, Cindy, Cindy,
I'm goin' to leave you now.
Cindy in the summertime,
Cindy in the fall,
If I can't have Cindy all the time
I don't want her at all.
(CHORUS)
Cindy went to meeting
How happy she did shout
She got so happy
She tore her stocking-heel out.
(CHORUS)
Cindy is the sweetest girl,
She's sweet as sugar plum,
Throwed her arms around my neck
Like a grapevine 'round a gum.
(CHORUS)
I made a little banjo,
I made it out of pine,
The only tune that it vould play
"I wish that you'd be mind."
(CHORUS)
SIDE I, Band 3: BO LAMKIN
This story of the wronged and revengeful mason is Child Ballad No. 93, and may be found in Motherwell (collected in England in 1825) and also in a number of American collections, including those of Cecil Sharp and Frank C. Brown. Brown suggests that "Lamkin" is a Flemish version of the name Lambert, since many fine masons were of Flemish blood and were often brought to England as builders. The ''Bo'' is, no doubt, an abbreviation of ''bald,'' since some versions of the ballad are titled "Bold
Lamkin." It is interesting that the old world "Lord" becomes "landlord" in this and other American versions. We like Frank Proffitt's own comments:
"I want to say that I never gave much thought to Bo Lamkin's feelings until I too got to building. It seems he got angry because 'pay he got none.' I have bad a occasion or two of this kind, not much I am glad to aay. I don't claim that I had murderous intent, but how I would have liked to take a big stone hammer and undone the work that pay I got none for. Old Bo, if he bad only done this to his work would have had my admiration very much. Perbaps we would not have heard of him then, which perhaps would have been just as well."
"I like to think of just where the place is now were he built the fine castle. For I believe it really happened as well as all the old
ball.ad things. The older foUs wanted a fact, then they went all out in building a legend around it, but never to destroy the fact that planted the seed. They kept it intact and thank God for it."
BO LAMKIN
Bo Lamkin was as fine a mason
As ever laid a stone,
He built a fine castle
And pay he got none,
He built a fine castle,
And pay he got none.
He swore by his Maker
He'd kill them unknown;
Beware of Bo Lamkin
When I'm gone from home. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin he come to the castle
And he knocked loud and long,
There was no one as ready as the faultress,
She arose and let him in. (Repeat)
Oh were is the landlord,
Or is he at home?
Oh no, he's gone to Merry England
For to visit his son. (Repeat)
How will we get her downstairs,
Such a dark night as it is?
Stick pins and needles
In the little baby. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin rocked the cradle
And the faultress she sung,
While the tears and the red blood
From the cradle did run. (Repeat)
The Lady, comin' downstairs
Not thinking no harm,
Bo Lamkin stood ready
He caught her in his arms. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin, Bo Lamkin,
Spare my life one hour,
You can have my daughter Betsy,
My own blooming flower. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin, Bo Lamkin,
Spare my life one day,
You can have all the gay gold
Your horse can tote away. (Repeat)
Oh, keep your daughter Betsy,
For to go through the flood,
To scour the silver basin
That catches your heart's blood. (Repeat)
Daughter Betsy was a-settin',
In the castle so high,
She saw her dear father
Come a-ridin' hard by. (Repeat)
Dear father, dear father,
Come see what's been done,
Bo Lamkin has been here
And he's killed your dear son. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin has been here
He's killed your baby,
Bo Lamkin has been here,
And killed your Lady. (Repeat)
Bo Lamkin was hung
To the scaffold so high,
And the faultress was burned
To a stake standin' by. (Repeat.)
SIDE I, Band 4: JULIE JENKINS
The first time we heard this song it was sung by Rosie Hicks (now Presnell), a cousin of Frank's wife, Bessie, and it has been ringing in our memries ever since. We like the way Frank sings it, too. He aays he has heard it was very popular in Watauga County just after the close of the Civil War. His Aunt Nancy Prather "used to sing it to us kids when we'd go to see her on Sunday and she'd be a-sittin' on the cabin porch." Aunt Nancy sang it for Dr. Frank C. Brown in 1937 and her version
is in his Collection of North Carolina Folklore. Other versions, usually kiiown as "Jennie Jenkins", are in a number of collections. This is one of many "color" songs that long have been popular with traditional singers. We can look for deep and hidden meaning in the references to the various colors--or we can sing it for fun. It is fun, once you have mastered the refrain! -
JULIE JENKINS
You can't wear red, my own true love,
You can't vear red, Julie Jenkins,
Oh, you can't wear red, it's the color of your head,
I'll get me a folli lolli, dilli dolli, servi juci, double rolli binding
To wear with my robe, Julie Jenkins.
You can't wear black, my own true love,
You can't wear black, Julie Jenkins,
Oh, you can't vear black, it's the color of a sack,
I'll get me a folli lolli, dilli dolli, servi juci, double rolli binding
To wear with my robe, Julie Jenkins.
You can't wear yellow, my own true love,
You can't wear yellow, Julie Jenkins,
You can't wear yellow, the color's so shallow,
I'll get me a folli lolli, d1lli dolli, servi juci, double rolli binding
To wear with my robe, Julie Jenkins.
You must wear blue, my own true love,
You must wear blue, Julie Jenkins.
Oh, you must wear blue, for the color is so true.
I'll get me a folli lolli, d1lli dolli, sern juci, double rolli binding
To wear with my robe, Julie Jenkins.
SIDE I, Band 5: GEORGE COLLINS
This is a version of "Lady Alice," Child Ballad No. 85, and the text found most frequently in the mountains of western Carolina. Frank says he has known it since he was a little boy, that his mother and his mother's sisters used to sing it to him. Texts of this song are found in mny collections-- among them: Davis's Traditional Ballads of Virginia, Henry's Folk songs from the Southern Highlands, Cox's Folk songs of the South, Brown's North carolina Folklore (with extensive notes), Sharp's English
Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians, Hudson's Folk songs of Mississippi, etc. Some versions (not in Carolina) indicate that the lady is a mermaid or a banishee, in some way responsible for the young man's death. The version Frank sings we first heard in the early 40' s from Nathan and Rena Hicks (Bessie Proffitt's parents) on Beech Mountain.
GEORGE COLLINS
George Collins rode home one cold winter night,
George Collins rode home so fine,
George Collins rode home one cold winter night,
He took down sick and died.
Now Mary was seated in yonder fair town
A-sewin' her silk so fine,
But when she beard that George was dead
She laid her fine silk aside.
She followed him up she followed him down,
She followed him to his grave,
And there upon her bended knee
She cried and screamed and prayed.
O daughter, dear daughter, why do you weep so?
There's more young men than one,
Oh no, Oh no, George has my heart,
And now he's dead and gone.
Oh don't you bear that turtle dove,
Way off in yonder lone pine?
A-mournin' for its own true love
Just like I mourn for mine.
George Collins rode home that cold winter night,
George Collins rode home so fine,
George Collins rode home that cold winter night,
He took down sick and died.
SIDE I, Band 6: NINETY AND NINE
This well known gospel song based on the Bible verse, Matthew 18: 12, is one of the hymns made popular by the famous evangelistic team of Moody and Sankey. The words were written by E. C. Clethane and the music by Ira D. Sankey. It was copyrighted in 1876 by Biglow and Main Co. In a later hymnal, dated 1894, there is a note stating that the song is "to be sung only as a solo." Frank Proffitt remembers this hymn from his boyhood days.
NDIETY AND NINE
There were ninety and nine
That safely lay in the shelter of the fold,
But one went out on the hills away
Far off from the gates of gold.
Way out on the mountains wild and bare
Away from the tender shepherd's care,
Away from the tender shepherd's care.
Now Lord thou hast here the ninety and nine
Is that not enough for thee?
But the shepherd made answer, ''This of mine
Has wandered away from me.
Although the road be rough and steep
I go to the desert to find my sheep,
I go to the desert to find my sheep."
Now none of the ransomed ever knew
How deep was the waters crossed,
How dark was that night that the Lord passed through
To save His sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert he heard its cry,
Sick and helpless and ready to die,
Sick and helpless and ready to die.
And the angels echoed around the throne...
Rejoice for the Lord brings back his own,
Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own.
SIDE I, Band 7: DOWN IN THE VALLEY
This lonesome mountain song, in various versions, can be found everywhere in the United States. Sometimes a prisoner's song
("Birmingham Jail"), it has the mournful feeling that all lonely lovers knov. Alan Lomax says it has become a national property, along with "Home on the Range" and a few others. See Lomax, Folksong, U.S.A.; Sandburg, American Songbag; Belden, Ballads and Songs Collected by the Missouri Folk-Lore Society; Brown, Carolina Folklore, Vol. 3, etc.
DOWN IN THE VALLEY
Down in the valley, valley so low
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow,
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
Up on the mountain, mountain so high,
I get so lonely, that I wish I could die.
I wish I could die, love, wish I could die,
I get so lonely that I wish I could die.
If you don't love me, go court who you please,
First put your arms ';round me to give my beart ease.
For to give my heart ease, love, for to give my heart ease,
First put your arms 'round me for to give my heart ease.
Write me a letter containing three lines,
Tell me you love me, you'll forever be mine.
Forever be mine, love, forever be mine;
Tell me you love me, you'll forever be mine.
Goin' to build me a castle, forty feet high,
Set at my window and watch you go by.
I'll watch you go by, love, watch you go by,
I'll set at my window and watch you go by.
SIDE II, Band 1: BABY-O
This song can be a lullaby or a song to amuse somewhat older children. Mountain people have many children and a great love for children. Or it can be a song to sing just for fun. In the mountains, though, it is also a "very old banjo tune," and most
any banjo player can pick it for you. Cecil Sharp collected one verse of it in 1917 in Pineville, Kentucky, and Jean Ritchie sings a Kentucky version very much like this one.
BABY-O
What you goin' to do with the baby-o?
What you goin' to do with the baby-o?
Wrap him up in calico, send him back to his mammy-o,
That's what I'll do with the baby-o!
What you goin' to do with the baby-o?
What you goin' to do with the baby-o?
Give her a needle and thread to sew,
That's what I'll do with the baby-o!
What you goin' to do with the lassie-o?
What you goin' to do with the lassie-o?
Marry her off to a handsome beau,
That's what I'll do with the lassie-o!
What you goin' to do with the laddie-o?
What you goin' to do with the laddie-o?
Put him on a horse and watch him go,
That's what I'll do with the laddie-o!
What you goin' to do with the daddy-o?
What you goin' to do with the daddy-o?
Kick him out in the rain and snow,
That's what I'll do with the daddy-o!
SIDE II, Band 2: OLD ABE
In spite of all our years of singing together, Frank never thought to sing us this song until 1959. We think it was all the talk about the Centennial of the Civil War that brought it to his mind. These verses (Frank says it had many more) he learned from his father, Wiley Proffitt, and his father's brother Noah. Their father was a "Southern Yankee" from Tennessee, a member of the 13th Tennessee Cavalry, USA--though his brother joined the Confederate army. The tales handed down to Frank from those unhappy days are fascinating indeed--and so is this song. These boys in blue are sick of the war and aren't feeling very respectful toward their leaders, but they aren't about to give up. Everybody knows the tune as "John Brown's Body," though it was once a Sunday School tune from Georgia.
OLD ABE
Old Abe he's in the White House
He's a-takin' of a snooze,
Old Grant he's a-bustin' his gut with the booze,
We're out a-vadin' snow and we aint got no shoes,
We'll keep a-marchin' on.
Glory, glory, Hallelujah,
Glory, glory, Hallelujah,
Glory, glory, Hallelujah,
We'll keep marchin' on.
Winter is a-comin', it's a-gettin' mighty cold,
Winter is a-comin', it's a-gettin' mighty cold,
Soon all the generals will be crawlin' in their holes,
We'll keep marchin' on.
(CHORUS)
Every time you shoot a rebel, there's one thing for sure,
Every time you shoot a rebel, there's one thing for sure,
Every time you shoot a rebel up'll jump a dozen more!
We'll keep marchin' on.
(CHORUS)
Old Abe he freed the colored man, glory hallelu!
Old Abe he freed the colored man, glory hallelu,
I wish to my Lord he would free me too,
Then I'd go marchin' home.
(CHORUS)
They tell us we are winning, but I can't hardly tell,
They tell us we are winning, but I can't hardly tell,
For I know at Chickamaugy that they shot us all to hell.
(CHORUS)
SIDE II, Band 3: POOR ELLEN SMITH
When Frank sang us this song in 1959 we had never heard it, or seen it, before. Since then we have found it in Brown III, in A.P. Hudson's Folksongs of M1ssissippi, in Davis's Folksongs of VirgIina, Henry's Folksongs from the Southern Highlands, etc.
Although he is not mentioned in Frank's version, one Peter De Graff was convicted of the murder of Ellen Smith in the August 1893 term of Forsyth (N.C.) Superior Court, his conviction being later upheld by North Carolina Supreme Court. In most versions of the song he claims he was innocent. Frank's version seems more concerned with reaching a verdict on the morals
of the victim! Frank does not know the facts behind the song. He says, "I heard all the old folks, including my father, play it on the banjo, but I never heard the words until some boys from this country went to the coal mines of West Virginia in 19 and 23, and came hack a-singing it."
The tune is one used for the hymn ''How Firm a Foundation." Frank plays one of his hand-made dulcimers to accompany this song.
POOR ELLEN SMITH
Poor Ellen Smith, where was she found,
Shot through the heart, lyin' cold on the ground.
Many hearts she has broken, many lies she has told,
It all now is ended in her bed in the snow.
Poor Ellen, poor Ellen, you've wasted your life,
You could of made some man a very good wife.
Many friends tried to warn you, of your ending you was told,
It all now is ended in your bed in the snow.
So early this morning, poor Ellen was found,
Shot through the heart, lyin' cold on the ground.
The men they will mourn you, the wives will be glad,
Such is the endin' of a girl that is bad.
Perhaps you're in heaven, God only knows,
But the Bible plainly tells UB you've gone down below.
SIDE II, Band 4: DAN DO
This version of Child Ballad No. "277, Wife Wrapt in Wether Skin," is the first song Frank Proffitt sang to us in 1938, and we've
been singing it ever since. Variants, differing widely from each other in everything but the story line, have been found in all parts of the British Isles and throughout the United States. We never heard Frank sing the final verse until 1959. We had thought his version lacked the reform element! Frank says now that he often leaves off that verse because the words don't fit in so well.
DAN DO
Oh the good little Dan come in at noon, Dan do, Dan do,
The good little mn come in at noon,
Have you got my dinner soon?
To my high land, to my low land,
To my krish, krash, klingo.
There's a little piece of bread a-layin' on the shell, Dan do, Dan do,
There's a little piece of bread a-layin' on the shelf ,
If you want any more, go fetch it yourself.
To my high land, to my low land,
To my krish, krash, klingo.
The little IIBn went out to his sheep-pen, Dan do, Dan do,
The little DBn went out to his sheep-pen,
He downed the wether and off with the skin
To IllY high land, to IllY low land,
To IllY krish, krash, klingo.
He laid the hide right on her back, Dan do,
Dan do,
He laid the hide all on her back
And he made that stick go whickety-wback,
To 'lI1;f high land, to 'lI1;f low land,
To 'lI1;f krish, krash, klingo.
I'm go in ' to tell 'lI1;f father and all of 'lI1;f kin,
Dan do, Dan do,
Goin' to tell 'lI1;f father and all of 'lI1;f kin
How you dress your mutton skin,
To 'lI1;f high land, to 'lI1;f low land,
To 'lI1;f krish, krash, klingo.
Go tell your father and your brothers too, Dan
do, Dan do,
Go tell your father and your brothers too
What a whippin' I give you,
To 'lI1;f high land, to 'lI1;f low land,
Krish, krash, klingo.
Next day the 11 ttle man come in from plow, Dan
do, Dan do,
Next day the 11 ttle man come in from plow,
She met him at the door, said 'Your dinner's
ready now!'
To 'lI1;f high land, to 'lI1;f low land,
To 'lI1;f krish, krash, klingo.
SIDE II, Band 5:
JOHN HARDY Frank Proffitt sang us this song about
the Negro badman in one of our early years together,
but he didn't have much to say about the story behind
it. We think in the muntains it is minly
another "good banjo piece" -- and that it surely is.
John Hardy, who killed a fellow gambler for stea11ng
a quarter, lived in the same section (West Virginia)
as the legendary John Henry of steel-driving fame,
and mny singers (and songs) contuse the two. See
Cox, Folksongs of The South. John Hardy, in various
versiOns, my be found also in Lomax, Brown, Sharp,
Randolph, and in N. 1. Wh1 te 's American Negro
Folksongs. Frank Proffitt says he learned this
version from "some boys yho vent to West Virginia
a-working, cutting timber. They learned it and
brought it back."
JOHN HARDY
John Hardy, he was a desperate 11ttle mn
And he carried two pistols every day,
When he shot a man on the West Virginia line
You Oughta say John Hardy gettin' away, Lord, Lord,
You Oughta saw John Hardy get tin , away.
John Hardy he yent to the East Stone Bridge
And he vowed that he would be free,
Up stepped Ned Bayly and he took him by the arm,
"Johnny, walk along with me, Lord, Lord,
Johnny walk along with me."
John Hardy, he had a 11ttle girl
And the dress that she wore was red,
She followed him to his hangin' ground,
"Papa, I would rather be dead, Lord, Lord,
Papa, I would rather be dead."
John Hardy, he had another 11 ttle girl
And the dress that she wore was blue
She followed her daddy to his hangin' ground
"Papa, I've been good to you, Lord, Lord,
Paps, I've been good to you."
1II0Y I've been to the East and I've been to the
West
And I've been this yhole world 'round,
I've been to the river and I've been baptized,
Now I'm on 'lI1;f tangin' ground, Lord, Lord,
Noy I'm on 'lI1;f hangin' ground!
SIDE II, Band 6:
GROUNDHOG This is a nursery and fun song about a
uall. animal that is, Frank ~s, "as thick as
fleas" in the mountains. It is also a favorite
banjo tune that has been around a long time. Frank
7
says, "I heard 'lI1;f father pick it years ago when I
was a little boy--about the first song I ever
heard him play." Our mountain frieDds "over on the
Beech" sang it to us years ago and very similar
versions are in mst of the American collections:
Sharp, Lomax, Cox, Brown, Randolph, etc. The hUllXlr
is pioneer American, as the groundhog is an
American critter. We can't figure out why "the
meat's in the churn"--and Frank can't either.
GROUNDHOG
I shouldered 'lI1;f gun and I whistled for 'lI1;f dog
Shouldered 'lI1;f gun and I whistled for my dog,
I headed to the mountains for to tree a groundhog,
Groundhog.
Two in a rock, and three in a log,
Two in a rock, and three in a log ,
Good God amighty, yhat a big groundhog!
Groundhog.
Run here, Jim, with a great long pole,
Run here, Jim, with a great long pole
To twist this groundhog out of his hole,
Groundhog.
Yonder come Granny a-walkin' on a cane,
Yonder come Granny a-walkin' on a cane,
SWears she'll eat them groundhog brain,
Groundhog.
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin,
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin,
With groundhog grease allover her chin,
Groundhog.
The hide's in the cupboard, the meat's in the churn,
The hide's in the cupboard, the meat's in the churn,
If this aint good groundhog I'll be durned,
Groundhog.
I took him home, I tanned his hide,
I took him home and tanned his hide,
He made the best shoestrings ever I tied,
Groundhog.
SIDE II, Band 7:
JOHNSON BOYS This is a dance tune for fiddle and
banJo--one of the oldest in the muntains--and the
words are incidental. Frank learned the tune from
his father's picking, and picked up these verses
from people on Beech ~untain, friends from Virginia,
and others here and there. See Brown or Lomx for
other versions. Frank does mighty fine work here
on the banjo.
JOHNSON BOYS
Wake, Oh wake, you drowsy sleeper,
Wake, Oh wake, at the break of day,
Stick your head out of the window,
Watch the pretty girls marchin' away,
Watch the pretty girls marchin' away
Watch the pretty girls marchin' away.
Johnson boys, they went a-courtin'
Johnson boys, they didn't stay
The reason that they vent no further
Had no money for to pay their way
Had no mney for to pay their way
Had no mney for to pay their way.
Johnson boys are brave and hardy
They know how to kiss old mids,
They hug and kiss, call them honey,
Fresh up pretty girls, don't be afraid,
Fresh up pretty girls, don't be afraid,
Fresh up pretty girls, don't be afraid:
COUNTRY MUSIC ON
FOJ,KWAYS RECORDS
om TIME & BLljECRASS
by Jobn Cohen
Th10 10 to serve as an introduction to one sel'}llent of
the Folkways cataloL vhich represents something of
the seeds and sources for a dynamic aspect of
American folk music vhich has found a ""ice in the
cities and colleges in recent years. For the most
part, this i. mountain music derived frou: the rural
south.
There i. nov an excitement about this music throughout
the colleges and Cities, amongst young people
vhc are finding a voice in this MUSiC, and who are
aaking it their ovo ""ice.
There are a great range of approaches to this music,
and a great aany styles in""lved; yet inherent
in this movement 10 a desire to reaain close to the
tradi tional. vay. of playing the music.
The movement, diverse 8e 1t le, has taken on &
structure which tea ita heroes, artistic leaders,
legendary characters, a sort of language of its
own, and several senseless contusions and stereotypes
applied to it.
Mucb of the clamor about thia music has come fro ..
banjo pickers & £uitar singers vho have brought
the music to everyone's attention by their very
enthusialllD. It 1a their excitement about the
muo1c vhich has cOlllllUDicated first. Bu~ there is
much more to be heard and understood.
These spirited musicians are often 'put down' for
being