The Wild Boar- Bobby McMillon (Lenoir, NC) c. 1970s
[Bobby McMillon's version of "The Wild Boar" from John Minear as he sang it several times this past summer at Elkins, West Virginia, during the Augusta Heritage "Old Time Week" in 2003. The date and McMillon's source have not been verified. According to Minear, Sheila Kay Adams' version was learned from Bobby, who lives in Lenoir, N.C., but comes from over near Cosby, Tennessee.
The opening stanza is similar to Rena Hicks version. I've edited the text slightly.
R. Matteson 2014]
THE WILD BOAR- Bobby McMillon, Lenoir, NC c. 1970s
Egra Bailey had three sons
Fal-a-day, fal-a-day, fal-a-dinks-dum-a-dairy-o
Egra Bailey had three sons,
Willie was the youngest one
Fal-a-day, fal-a-day, fal-a-dinks-dum-a-dairy-o.
Willie would a hunting ride
With a sword and pistol by his side.
As he rode on the greenwood side
Up in a tree a lady he spied
What are you doing up in that tree?
And then replied this gay lady.
There bees a wild boar to these woods
He kilt my lord and he drunk his blood.
Oh, how shall I this wild boar see?
Just wind thy horn, he'll come to thee.
He placed his horn up to his mouth
And he wound it well both north, east, west and south
The wild boar heared him to his den,
He made the oak and ash to bend.
They fit four hours ofthe day
And then the wild boar slank away.
As they rid down by the wild boar's den
There laid the bones of a thousand men.
Yander he comes through the brash
He's a cutting his way through the oak and ash
They fit two hours of the day,
Then this wild board he did slay.
He met the witch-wife on the bridge
She cried, "you rogue, you've kilt my pig!"
There's just three things I crave of thee
Thy hawk, thy hound, thy gay lady.
Well then these three things you can't have of me
My hawk, my hound, nor my gay lady.
In to his locks the witch wife flew
I thought to my soul he was torn in two.
He split the witch-wife to the chin
Then on his way return again.
In the Broomgrove Church his body lies
You may see it as well as I.
They's a piece of corn bread a-laying on the shelf
If you want more sung, you'll have to sing it yourself.