III. Men at Work: 6. Farmers of the South

III. 6. FARMERS OF THE SOUTH  

CONTENTS: III. 6. Farmers of the South

Po' Farmer........ 280
It's Hard on We Po' Farmers .........281
Ain't It Hard to Be a Right Black Nigger?..........282
Georgia Land..........284
Georgia Boy..........286
Hard Times in the Country.......287
The Dodger................289
Cotton-Mill Colic............. 291
Chilly Winds ....... 293

III. 6. FARMERS OF THE SOUTH  
 The South is singing country, dancing country, fiddling, guitar and banjo-picking country. The spirituals, the blues, ragtime, jazz, and "hill-billy" music came out of the South. It is the country of John Henry, Casey Jones, John Hardy, Stackerlee, Po' Laz'us, Pretty Polly, Wild Bill Jones, and the Boll Weevil. The land is wild and brooding and fertile and gay. Its singing reflects the feeling of the people about their land and its dark and splendid history.

Elsewhere in this volume we print the noble religious songs of the South, its love songs with their tricks and fancies, its tales of fierce brooding pas­sion that brought lovers to their graves, its blues, its work songs, its dance tunes—all made, decorated, or saved up with love by the farm people of the South. Half of the songs in the book, therefore, might well be included in this section, but we have chosen only those songs which have to do with the economic problems of the sharecropper, the farm laborer, the migratory worker, or the small farmer, those which we could feel fairly sure were of folk origin. Here again the South shows itself a singing country, for it has produced songs of lasting strength and merit to tell some of the problems of its rural population.

Make your cotton and make your corn,
And keep it all in the white folk's ham,
But never you mind about the settlin' time,
The white will bring you out behin'.

When white man git to worrying
He ride in de air.
When nigger git to worryin',
Can't go nowhere.

*             *             *

A man heard a racket in his field. It was old man Boll Weevil whiffing Willie Boll Weevil 'cause he couldn't carry two rows of cotton at a time.
 
PO' FARMER
No record. Negro share-cropper on the Smithers Plantation, Huntsville, Texas, 1934. Given by A. Lomax.  
   
   
Chorus: Po' farmer, po' farmer, po' farmer,
Dey git all de farmer make.  

1. I saw a humble farmer,
His back was bended low,
He came from pickin' cotton,
From off de bottom boll.  

2  Up steps de merchant
Wid a high-top derby on:
"Pay me, pay me, Mister Farmer,
For you to me belong."

3  Up sailed another merchant
With horses an' buggies fine:
"Pay me, pay me, Mister Farmer,
For your corn is shorely mine."

4  His clo'es is full of patches,
His hat is full of holes,
Stoopin' down pickin' cotton,
From off de bottom boll.

5  At de commissary dere
His money's in deir bags,
While his po' little wife an' chillun
Sit at home in rags.  
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 IT'S HARD ON WE PO' FARMERS
No. 729. Lemuel Jones, Richmond, Va., 1936.  
   
   
1 Work all week an' don' make enough
Pay my board an' buy my snuff.

Chorus: It's hard, it's hard,
It's hard on we po' farm (ers).
It's hard.

2  Work all week, in the noonday sun,
Fifteen cents when Sat'day come.

3  Every morning when I wake up,
Got to feed my horse and all day cut.

4  Every night when I get home,
Peas in the pot and a old jawbone.
 
AIN'T IT HARD TO BE A RIGHT BLACK NIGGER?
James Baker (Iron Head), Sugar Land, Texas, 1936. Text composite. See Od. 1, pp. 254; Whi, 385.
"Dat white man cussed me from de birth o' Saul an' Silas to de death o' de devil an' called me everything 'cept a chily o' God." 
  
 Chorus: Ain't it hard to be a right black nigger?
Po' nigger ain' got no show.
Ain't it hard to be a right black nigger?
Po' nigger ain' got no show.
 
1. Nigger and a white man was playin' seven-up,
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
Nigger won the money, was afraid to pick it up,
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

2   If you don't go to stealing the white man's money,
Take away yo' horse and mule;
If you don't go to stealing the white man's money,
Take away yo' horse and mule.

3   I told the master my wife was sick,
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
"You're tellin' me a lie, you son-of-a-bitch,"
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

4  I asked my master, "How do you know?"
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
"I gave her two dollars an hour ago."
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

5   I know an old man named Uncle Ned,
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
Just about three strands of hair on his head,
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

6  He had no money, had no home,
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
Poor old man always liked to roam,
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

7  Fer a nickel's worth of crackers and a dime worth of cheese,
Po' nigger ain' got no show,
Dey treat him like a dog and do him like dey please,
Po' nigger ain' got no show.

GEORGIA LAND
No. 729. Jim Owens, State Penitentiary, Richmond, Va., 1936. See PTFLS, No. 5, p. 1785 "Old Joe Clark," L0.2, p. 2775 Bot, pp. 269 if. ; also "Liza Jane," and related songs.

This song is what is known as a sinful reel. In the cool of the evening when a man has nearly finished his plowing, or late Saturday night rattling home from town with a jug under the wagon seat and the lines tied to the handbrake—these are occasions for "Georgia Land." We have heard it all over the South on the lips of rural Negroes, but the stanza which we still like best is the following: 
  
 Last year was a very fine year,
For termaters and pertaters.
Papa didny raise no beans an' greens,
But, Lawd God, the taters! 

1. My gal don' wear button-up shoes,
Her feet too big for gaiters,
All she's fit fur—a dip of snuff
And a yallow yam potato.
Jint ahead, center back,
Did you ever work on the railroad track?

2   My dog died of whooping cough,
My mule died of distemper,
Me 'n' my gal can't git along,
She's got a pretty bad temper.
Tighten on the backhand, loosen on the bow,
And-a whoa! quit pickin' that banjo so!

3   You go saddle the old gray mare,
And I will plow old muley.
I'll make a turn 'fore the sun goes down,
And I'll go back home to Julie.
Rowdy-o! Rowdy-o!
If you got the wagon loaded, let me see you go!

4  Takes four wheels to hold a load,
Takes two mules to pull double,
Take me back to Georgia Land
And I won't be no trouble.
----------------------------------------------------

WHOA! GEORGIA BOY
No. 1029. Mrs. Ruth Clark Culiipher and Angle Clark, Mullins, S.C., 1937. See Sh, 2:258; Ed, p. 243.  
   
1. Come, Georgia boy, come listen to my song,
Concerning the man who made no corn;
The reason why I cannot tell,
For I am sure that he worked right well.

2  In September his corn was knee-high,
In October he laid it by,
In November there came a great frost,
And you can't tell how much he lost.  

3  He went to the field and there he looked in,
The jimpson weeds were up to his chin,
The bushes and the grass had grown so high,
Enough to make this young man cry.

4  In the winter, I was told,
He went courting, very bold.
When his courtship first began—
My kind sir, did you make any corn?"
 
5  "No, kind miss," was his reply.
"Long ago I laid it by,
It wasn't worth while to strive in vain.
For I didn't expect to make one grain.

6  "My kind sir, you ask me to wed.
If that is your way, we'll have no bread,
Single I am, and single I'll remain,
For a lazy man I won't maintain."  
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HARD TIMES IN THE COUNTRY
Columbia Master No. 15565-D (out of print). Ace. on guitar.  
   
   
1. Come you ladies and you gentlemen and listen to my song,
I'll sing it to you right, but you might think it's wrong,
May make you mad but I mean no harm,
It's just about the renters on Penney's farm.
 
Chorus: It's a hard times in the country.
Out on Penney's farm.

2.  You move out on Penney's farm.
Plant a little crop of 'bacco, and a little crop of corn,
Come around to see you, gonna plit and plot
Till you get yourself a mortgage on everything you've got.

3.  Haven't old George Penney got a flatterin' mouth?
Move you to the country in a little log house.
Got no windows but the cracks in the wall,
He will work you summer and he'll rob you in the fall.

4  You'll go in the fields and you'll work all day,
Way after night, but you get no pay.
Promise you meat or a little bucket of lard,
It's hard to be a renter on Penney's farm.

5  Here's George Penney, he'll come into town,
With a wagonload of peaches, not a one of 'em sound,
Got to have his money or somebody's check,
Pay him for a bushel and you don't get a peck.

6  George Penney's renters, they'll come into town,
With their hands in their pockets and their head a-hangin' down,
Go in the store and the merchant would say,
"Your mortgage is due and Pm lookin' for my pay."

7  Down in his pocket with a trembelin' hand,
"Can't pay you all but I'll pay you what I can."
Then to the telephone the merchant made a call,
They'll put you on the chain gang, an' you don't pay at all.

THE DODGER
No. 3230. Emma Dusenberry, Mena, Ark., 1936. By courtesy of Sidney Robertson, Lawrence Powell and Charles Seeger. Said to have been used as an anti-Blaine song- in the Cleveland-Blaine campaign. Mrs. Emma Dusenberry of Mena, Arkansas, sings "The Dodger." She learned it in the 1880s, when a farmer could still make a living, "just as sure as he was born."  
   
1. Yes, the candidate's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the candidate's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too,
He'll meet you and treat you and ask you for your vote,
But look out, boys, he's a-dodging for a note!
 
Chorus: Yes, we're all dodging, a-dodging, dodging, dodging;
Yes, we're all dodging out a way through the world.

2   Yes, the lawyer he's a dodger, a well known dodger,
Yes, the lawyer he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll plead you a case and claim you as a friend,
But look out, boys, he's easy for to bend!

3   Yes, the doctor he's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the doctor he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll doctor you and cure you for half you possess,
But look out, boys, he's a-dodging for the rest!

4  Yes, the preacher he's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the preacher he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll preach you a gospel and tell you of your crimes,
But look out, boys, he's a-dodging for your dimes!

5   Yes, the merchant he's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the merchant he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll sell you the goods at double the price,
But when you go to pay him, you'll have to pay him twice.

6  Yes, the farmer he's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the farmer he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll plow his cotton, he'll plow his corn,
He'll make a living just as sure as you're born!

7  Yes, the lover he's a dodger, yes, a well known dodger,
Yes, the lover he's a dodger, yes, and I'm a dodger too;
He'll hug you and kiss you and call you his bride,
But look out, girls, he's telling you a lie!

COTTON-MILL COLIC
No. 1629. Ace. on guitar and sung by Joe Sharp of Skyline Farms, Scottsboro, Ala., in Washington, D.C., 1939. By courtesy of Nicholas Ray. See also "Cotton Mill Blues." Decca 5559.
The story of what happens to the cotton farmer when he becomes a cotton-mill worker, with the "collection man" as the villain of the piece.  
   
   
1. When you buy clothes on easy terms,
The collector treats you like measly worms;
One dollar down and then, Lord knows,
If you don't make a payment they'll take your clothes.
When you go to bed, you can't sleep,
You owe so much at the end of the week.
No use to collect, they're all that way,
Peckin' at your door till they get your pay.
 
Chorus: I'm a-gonna starve, ev'rybody will,
You can't make a livin' at a cotton mill.

2  When you go to work, you work like the devil,
At the end of the week you're not on the level.
Pay day comes, you pay your rent,
When you get through, you've not got a cent
To buy fat-back meat, pinto beans,
Now and then you get a turnip green.
No use to collect, they're all that way,
You can't get the money to move away.

3  Twelve dollars a week is all I get—
How in the heck can I live on that?
I got a wife and fourteen kids,
We all have to sleep on two bedsteads.
Patches on my breeches, holes in my hat,
Ain't had a shave since my wife got fat.
No use to collect, ever' day at noon—
Kids get to cryin' in a different tune.

4  They run a few days, and then they stand,
Just to keep down the workin'man.
We'll never make it, we never will,
As long as we stay in a roundin' mill.
The poor are gettin' poorer, the rich are gettin' rich,
If I don't starve, I'm a son of a gun.
No use to collect, no use to rave,
We'll never rest till we're in our grave.

Chorus: If I don't starve, nobody will,
You can't make a livin' at a cotton mill.

CHILLY WINDS
No. 1368. Ace. by Bogtrotters Band and sung by Fields Ward, Galax, Va., 1937. Another version of the text appears in John Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath." We are assured that this was the song par excellence of the home­less wanderers of the 1930's, especially the "Okies." The tune appears to be related to "I Ain't a-Gonna Study War No Mo5," "Careless Love," "C. C. Rider," "New River Train," and other songs. See Hu, 313.

Based on the Negro song, "I Ain't a-Gonna Be Treated This-a-Way." "Chilly Winds" can be heard wherever there are migratory workers, from the Florida Everglades to the beet fields of Michigan and the orange groves of the Imperial Valley. 
  
  
 1   I'm goin' where them chilly winds won't blow, darlin' baby,
I'm goin' where them chilly winds don't blow,
When I'm goin' to my long lonesome home.

2  Oh, make me a pallet on the floor, darlin' baby, etc.
For I'm goin' to my long lonesome home.

3   Now who'll be your partner when I'm gone?
When I'm gone to my long lonesome home?

4  Oh, who'll hoe your corn when Im gone?

5  Who'll stir the gravy when I'm gone?

6  Oh, it's way down in jail on my knees.

7   Oh, they feed me on corn bread and peas.

8   I ain't got but one old rusty dime.

9   Oh, I'll have a new dollar some old day, darlin' baby,
Oh, I'll have a new dollar some old day.
And I'll throw this old rusty dime away.

10  Back, back, old freight train, get your load.

11   Oh, I'm going where the climate suits my clothes,
Dat road got littler and littler till it jes' run up a tree.