Pretty Polly- Old woman (TX) c1875 Scarborough
[My title. From On The Trail Of Negro Folk-Songs; Dorothy Scarborough 1925; Scarborough says the woman was old (say 60 in 1925, she was a great-grandmother so she was probably older) and she learned the song when she was a child so c. 1875 seems like a good conservative date for the origin of the song for this informant. Notes and text from Scarborough follow.
Version of Child B, Wearie's Well.
R. Matteson 2104]
My next ballad discovery was made in Waco, Texas, when I was seeking material for an article on "Negro Ballets and Reels," for the Texas Folk-lore Association. I was wandering about in the suburbs of South Waco, in the Negro section, dropping in at various places. I passed by a cabin where an old woman sat on the steps, rocking a baby to sleep. The garden was neat with rows of vegetables and gay with old-fashioned flowers, Johnny-jump-ups, pinks, larkspur, petunias, and in the back the line showed snowy clothes drying in the sun. The old woman was crooning something to the child, as she swayed her body back and forth.
I turned in at the gate.
"How do you do?" I said. "That's a nice baby."
"Howdy, mistis," she answered cordially. "Yas'm, dat's mah great-grandchild. Ain't he a buster? "
"What was that song you were singing to him?" I inquired, as I sat down on an upturned box.
"Oh, dat's jes' an old thing, I don't recollict de name of it. I doan' know, in fac', ef it has ary name."
"Won't you please sing it for me, mammy?" I begged.
"Oh, I ain't kin sing wuth speaking of," she demurred. "I done los' mah voice."
"Oh, please, sing it for me."
And so she sang her version of the old ballad, Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight:
There was a tall an' handsome man,
Who come a-courtin' me.
He said, "Steal out atter dark to-night
An' come a-ridin' with me, with me,
An' come a-ridin' with me.
"An' you may ride your milk-white steed
An' I my apple bay."
We rid out from my mother's house
Three hours befo' de day, de day,
Three hours befo' de day.
I mounted on my milk-white steed
And he rode his apple bay.
We rid on til we got to the ocean,
An' den my lover say, lover say,
An' den my lover say:
"Sit down, sit down, sweetheart," he say,
"An' listen you to me.
Pull off dat golden robe you wears
An' fold hit on yo' knee, yo' knee,
An' fold hit on yo' knee."
I ax him why my golden robe
Must be folded on his knee.
"It is too precious to be rotted away
By the salt water sea, water sea,
By the salt water sea."
I say, "Oh, sweetheart, carry me back home,
My mother for to see,
For I'm a-feared I'll drowned be
In this salt water sea, water sea,
In this salt water sea."
He tuck my hand and drug me in
I say, "Oh, sweetheart, take me back!
The water's up to my feet, my feet,
The water's up to my feet."
He smile at me an' draw me on,
"Come on, sweetheart, sweetheart,
We soon will be across the stream,
We 've reached the deepest part, deepest part,
We've reached the deepest part."
As I went on I cry an' say,
"The water's up to my knees!
Oh, take me home! I'm a-feared to be drowned
In this salt water sea, water sea,
In this salt water sea."
He pull me on an' say, "Sweetheart,
Lay all your fears aside.
We soon will be across it now
We 've reached the deepest tide, deepest tide,
We've reached the deepest tide."
I sank down in the stream an' cry,
"The water's up to my waist."
He pull at me an' drug me on;
He say, "Make haste, make haste, make haste."
He say, "Make haste, make haste."
I cry to him, "The water's up to my neck."
"Lay all your fears aside.
We soon will be across it now,
We 've reached the deepest tide, deepest tide,
We've reached the deepest tide."
I caught hol' of de tail of my milk-white steed,
He was drowned wid his apple bay.
I pulled out of de water an' landed at my mother's house
An hour befo' de day, de day,
An hour befo' de day.
My mother say, "Pretty Polly, who is dat,
A-movin' softily?"
An' I say to my Polly, "Pretty Polly,
Don't you tell no tales on me, on me,
Don't you tell no tales on me."
An' my mother say, "Is dat you, Polly?
Up so early befo' day?"
"Oh, dat mus' be a kitty at yo' door,"
Is all my Polly say, Polly say,
Is all my Polly say.
There were gaps in the singing, for she said she could not remember it all, she was "so ol' now." I asked her where she learned it; she told me, "My mammy used to sing hit when I was a child. I doan' know where she larned hit."
She could not read or write, nor could her mother, and so this was undoubtedly a case of oral transmission. Her use of such expressions as "apple bay" for "dapple gray" is naively interesting. This is more like version H, No. 4 in Child's Collection, than any other. The change to the first person here is noteworthy. While one disÂtinguishing trait of a ballad is its impersonality, the Negroes are fond of the dramatic "I."