V. Hollers and Blues

V.     HOLLERS AND BLUES
Roustabout Holler...........    350
Trouble, Trouble..........           352
Mamma, Mamma...........    355
Go Down, OF Hannah..........    35°
Make Me a Garment..........    358
Go Down, You Little Red Rising Sun.......    360
Prison Moan............    361
Lights in the Quarters Burnin' Mighty Dim.....    362
Eadie..............    363
I Been a Bad, Bad Girl..........    364
Sun Gonna Shine in My Door Some Day......    366
The Rising Sun Blues..........    368
Big Fat Woman...........    370
I'm a Stranger Here...........    371
Fm Worried Now But I Won't Be Worried Long . . . -373
Lines from the Blues..........    374

 

HOLLERS AND BLUES 
 "Hollering songs" represent a distinct type of Negro folk singing. Usually they consist of a two-line stanza in which the singer repeats the first verse two or three times and the last verse once—the whole introduced and fol­lowed by long drawn-out moaning or "yodling" or shouts in the tempo and mood of the tune he has been singing. They are sung with an open throat—shouted, howled, growled, or moaned in such fashion that they will fill a stretch of country and satisfy the wild and lonely and brood­ing spirit of the worker. The holler is a musical platform from which the singer can freely state his individual woes, satirize his enemies, and talk about his woman.
The country Negro worker lightens the tedium of his labor by these musical cries: a plowman, turning sandy furrows in the long cotton rows of a lonely swamp field7 the mule skinner, driving his team, with trace chains clanking, up and down in the dust of a levee bank; a roustabout, shouting the beat for the feet of his companions as, like an endless chain, they stagger under a load up the gangplank or, in double-time, hurry down on the other side—"them niggers keep hollerin' all the time." The melodies are so free that it is impossible to give an adequate picture of them even by tran­scribing entire songs in musical notation. In mood they run the gamut of the worker's emotional life: his loves and sorrows, his hope and despair, his weariness, his resentment.
c<Oo—oo—oo—oo—uh! If I feels tomorrow like I feels today Take a long freight train wid a red caboose to carry my blues away."
"That's Enoch hollering" said Mrs. Tartt one night, as we sat on her porch near Livingston, Alabama.                      *
Although the singer was some distance away, the cry seemed to fill com­pletely the void of dark silence about us. The pitch started high but grew to a climax unbelievably high for a deep voice like his, and then faded gradually into a mournful wail, ending in a jumble of words. The call was thrice repeated.

 

 "Hopeless, remote, stark loneliness," I managed to say, for a feeling near to fear had tightened my heart.
"Enoch is like a shy bird of the night," Mrs. Tartt said. "Many people in Livingston have never seen him except perhaps after night when he flits by them in the darkness. Every night he comes out on the wooded end of the long bridge leading into Livingston and cries his woes to heaven. He lives alone in a cabin back in the woods. It will be a hard job to get him to sing into your microphone, but I'll try; Enoch is a little off, you know."
Two or three nights afterwards Enoch's cry rang out startlingly near. I ran out and found him standing like a piece of darkness itself near the trunk of a great oak tree. When I asked him to come nearer the microphone, he answered me with a burst of nervous, explosive laughter. I was a long time getting him near the machine where I could secure a recording. Between the hollers I could only catch the words,
"Just a few more weeks and I won't be here long"
He laughed again and seemed mightily pleased at the sound of his own voice when I played back the record. Neither then nor afterwards did he utter a spoken word.
The next December I sent Enoch a Christmas card in care of Mrs. Tartt. Probably he had never before received a letter. She delivered the card to Enoch on Christmas Day along with a big Christmas dinner. Enoch appeared the following day. No card but another dinner. For two weeks Enoch came back at dinnertime inquiring for another card.
"He thought your Christmas card was a meal ticket," commented Mrs. Tartt.      

                                               —Adventures of a Ballad Hunter.
ROUSTABOUT HOLLER
c. No. 2658. Henry Truvillion, Newton, Texas, 1939.
Chanting:
Now boys, we're on the steamer Natchez,
And we got to load this here cotton and cottonseed here
Before anybody can shut his eyes like he's asleep;
So we might just as well tear around
Get us a gobo apiece.
Let's go on and load this stuff, what do you say?
We're up here and got it to do.
Where you at there, you old nub-fingered nappy?
Let's hear from you, blow your horn, let's load some cotton.
* This is the tune of stanza 1. Most of the remaining stanzas can be fitted to it with slight altera, tions; several must be sung as free variants on the basic pattern.
1 Oh-h-h-h, Po? roustabout don't have no home, Makes his livin5 on his shoulder bone. 
 2 Oh-h-h-h,
Wake up, sleepy, and tell your dream,
I want to make you acquainted with the two blue seams. 
 3 Oh-h-h-h,
Midnight was my cry, 'fo' day was my creep,
I got a pretty little girl in big New Orleans, lives on Perdida Street.
[* Sacks of cottonseed had two blue stripes running from bottom to top.]
 
4  Oh-h-h-h,
If yo' shoulder bone gets so5 this time. Git you a little sody an' turpentine.
5  Oh-h-h-h,
1 left my home in '84,
And I ain't never been dere no more.
6  Oh-h-h-h,
I know my sweetie goin' open the do', As soon as she hear the Natchez blow.
7  Oh-h-h-h,
The Natchez up the bayou an' she done broke down,
She got her head toward Memphis, but she's New-Orleans-boun'.
8   Oh-h-h-h,
Did you hear Daniel in the lion den? Lord, have mercy, hear me now.
9   Oh-h-h-h,
Po' roustabout don't have no home, Here today and tomorrow gone.
10  Oh-h-h-h,
'Fo' day was my cry, midnight was my creep,
1 got a sweet little gal in big New Orleans, I does all I can to please.
11   Oh-h-h-h,
Catch this here sack, boys, and leave it go,
Take her down the river further, 'cause they ain't no mo'.

TROUBLE, TROUBLE
/#. No. 948. James Hale, Atmore, Ala., 1937. See Od.2, p. 40.

1   Trouble, trouble, I had them all my day, Trouble, trouble, trouble, had them all my day. Well, it seem like trouble go'n' let me to my grave.
Giddap over dere, Spot; come here, Hattiel Whoa derel Giddap derel Pow! *
2  Well, Pm gwine back South, Mamma, where de weather suit my clothes, Well, Pm go'n back South, babe, where de weather suit my clothes, Well, Pm gonna lay out on dat green grass—an' look up at de sky.
Gee over dere} Pokey. Come *ere now, Spot, Jesy look at you!
3   Well, so many a day, Mamma, laid in my cell an' moan, Well, so many a day, Lawd, laid in my cell an5 moan,
Well, Pm thinkin' about my baby, Lawd, an' yo' happy home.
What I told you over dere, ol} mule? Git up over dere, An* give me a pull now. Spotlight, you an} ol} Hattiel
4  Well, Mamma, Mamma, here an' listen to my second mind, Hey, hey, Mamma, listen to my second mind,
Well, I don't b'lieve Pd 'a' been here, wringin' my hand an' cryin'.
Whoa derel
[* Imitation of the sound of a popping whip lash]

MAMMA, MAMMA
c. No. 210. A. Haggerty (Track Horse), Huntsville, Texas, 1934. See "Go Down, OP Hannah."
i Well3 it's Mamma, Mamma, O Lawd, you don't know; And it's Mamma, Mamma, Mamma, you don't know.
1 Well, it's trouble I've been havin', Mamma, ain't gonna have no mo', Mamma, this trouble I've been havin', ain't gonna have no mo'!
3  Little boy, if you see my Mamma, will you please tell her for me, Lawd, to see that governor, tell him to set me free?
4  Mamma, some goes this summer, 0 Lawd, some goes this fall ; Mamma, but it's so many bullies don't go at all.

GO DOWN, OL' HANNAH
b®. No. 199. Ernest Williams and a group, Sugar Land, Texas, 1933. See L0.2, p. 58.
Little boyy little boyy who fooled you here? Little boyy little boyy who fooled you here? Did they tell you it was a heaven? You found a burning hell.
Little boyy you oughta knowed you couldn^t hold >emy Little boyy you oughta stayed at homey Picked uf chifs for yoy mammy And blowed yoy daddyys ho'n.
The slow-drag work songs that grew up in what the old prisoners call the "red heifer" days in the Texas penitentiary stand, along with the Negro spirituals, as the greatest American folk songs. As the hoes and cane knives flash in the sun, the plaintive melodies speak of tired bodies, aching limbs, stifling heat. The "red heifer" was somebody's jocular nickname for the cowhide lash used on the leased convicts as they rolled in the burning hell of the Brazos bottom cane fields. They were leased out by the state to individual plantation owners, and these men, according to the prisoners, weren't particular about whom they hit or who fell out with sunstroke. A "Mister Cunningham" * gets honorable mention by the convicts, and in 1904, the songs say, you ought to have been down on his place; they were finding a dead man at every turnrow. OP Hannah was beaming, and the bullies were screaming. It was an act of heroism, as the stanzas quoted above make tenderly clear, to be able to "hold 'em"—to survive.
aOP Hannah was shininy way uf there, an* we was try in3 to full her down."
* At that time under Texas law (long- since repealed), convicts were rented out as laborers to owners of large plantations.
i Go down, ol' Hannah ? well, well, well, Don't you rise no more, doift you rise no more; Go down, oP Hannah, Don't you rise no more.
2   If you rise in the mornin', well, well, well, Bring judgment on, bring judgment on.
I ain't tired of livin', But I got so long,
3   My mamma called me, well, well, well,
An' I answered, "Ma'am," and I answered, "Ma'am"; "Ain't you tired of rollin' For Cunnin'ham?"
4  "I'm tired of rollin', well, well, well, But I ain't got long, but I ain't got long, Pv6 got a few more numbers.
And then I'll be gone."
5   My papa called me, well, well, welly
And I answered, "Sir," and I answered "Sir" "If you tired of rollin', What you stay there for?"
6  OP long-time man, well} well, well, HoP up your head, hoP up your head; You may get a pardon.
An' you may drop dead.
7  Well, it's some on the building well, well, well, And some on the farm, and some on the farm, It's some in the graveyard
And some gone home.
8   Go down, ol' Hannah, well, well, well, Don't you rise no more, don't you rise no more; If you rise in the mornin',
Set the world on fire.

MAKE ME A GARMENT
g. No. 682. Roscoe McLean, State Penitentiary, Rai-ford, Fla., 1936. Contains lines from "Barbara Allen."
Roscoe McLean, who hollered this holler and contributed other lovely folk songs to the Folk Song Archive, for more than a year has been in the tuberculosis ward of the Florida Penitentiary. Recently I talked with Roscoe —he could only whisper as he peered through the woven wire netting, sob­bing his despair. He will never sing again.

X Mamma, Mamma, make me a garment, And make it long, white, and narrow.
2   Mamma, Mamma, look on my pillow And you will find some money.
3   Get along, boys, and gather 'round me, Come pay my fine, come and get me. 
 4 My true love died the other day I believe HI die tomorrow.
GO DOWN, YOU LITTLE RED RISING SUN
g to ao. No. 682. Roscoe McLean, State Penitentiary, Raiford, Fla., 1936. See Od.2, p. 82, last stanzaj Sh, 2:27s. 
  
  
 1   Uh—go down, go down, you little red, Redder than rouge rising sun,
And don't you never—uh—bring day, Great Godamighty, no more.
2  To the pine, to the pine, where the sun, Great Godamighty, don't shine,
You got to shiver when the cold, Great Godamighty, wind blows.
3  Lord, I wish to my soul that old bald— Bald-head Judge was dead,
And green grass growing round, Great Godamighty, his head.
4  Lord, I left my home in nine— Nineteen hundred and ten, And I ain't never, oh, been back, Great Godamighty, again.
 
5  aOh, Mamma, Mamma, why'n't you pray, Great Godamighty, for yo' child?
For the grand jury tryin' to have, Great Godamighty, him hung."
6  "Oh, son, oh, son, what in the world, Great Godamighty, you done.
For the grand jury tryin' to have, Great Godamighty, you hung?"
7  "Mamma, Mamma, you just pray. Great Godamighty, for me,
And I never will do wrong, Great Godamighty, no more.
8  "I ain't killed no man and I ain't robbed, Great Godamighty, no train,
And I ain't did no man, Great Godamighty, no crime." 
 PRISON MOAN*
£b. No. 270. Robert Higgins, State Prison, Raleigh, N.C., 1934.
i If I had a-listened what my mother said, I would V been home sleepin' in my cold iron bed;
2 But I bein' hardheaded an3 I would not min'. Yes, they caused me here with all this time.
[*A hymnlike tune used as a prison holler.]
3   But if I overcome this trouble Pm in, Lawd, I never no mo' will live in sin.
4  When I was a free man I had plenty friends; Now Pm in trouble, an' they won5 come in.
5  Lawd, in struggle Pll stretch my hands to Thee, Lawd, in trouble, no other help I know.
6  But if Thou withdrew Thyself from me; I would wonder where then shall I go.
7  Lawd, if I could hear my dear old mother When she pray for me once again!
8  Trouble have caused me to weep, an' it's caused me to moan. An' it caused me to leave my happy home. 
 LIGHTS IN THE QUARTERS BURNIN' MIGHTY DIM
/#. No. 693. Johnny Maxwell, State Penitentiary, Raiford, Fla., 1936.

Lights in the quarters burnin' mighty dim, partner,
Lights in the quarters burnin' mighty dim,
Must be killin' poor Shanty Joe.
Please don't kill poor Shanty, don't kill poor Shanty Joe.
Captain, can't you see this four o'clock risin's 'bout to kill poor me?
Captain, can't you see this four o'clock trouble 'bout to kill poor me? 
 EADIE
g. No. 190. Lightning- and Dave Tippen, Darrington State Farm, Texas, 1934.
I Go way, Eadie, you dirty dog, Wo, Eadie, go way 3 Go way, Eadie, you dirty dog, Wo, Eadie, go way.
2   Go way, Eadie, quit worryin5 me, Wo, Eadie, go way.
3   Told you once and I told you twice, Wo, Eadie, go way.
4  Next time I tell you goin5 take your life, Wo, Eadie, go way.
"Now this here is a blues. You never heard a white man could sing the blues in your life, have you? You know the reason why? They donyt have them. Blues was composed up by the Negro people when they was under slavery. They was worried.
"When you lie down at night sometime, it ain't too hot and it ain't too cold, but you turning from side to side. What's the matter? Blues got you. When you get up in the morning, the blues is walkin' 'round your bed. You may have a mother and a father and a sister and a brother and maybe a girl friend, and none of them ain't done you no thin'. Anyhow you don't want no talk out of 'em. What's the matter with you? The blues got you."
—Lead Belly.
"The blues are made by working people, both Negroes and whites, when they have a lot of problems to solve about their work, when their wages are low and they don't have no way to exist hardly and they don't know which way to turn and what to do, whenever they're low in spirit and actually feeling blue.
"I used to hear a bunch of colored boys that belonged to an old colored preacher by the name of Steve Crews that lived right over from us. %They was next-door neighbors but they lived just across the track—the mining track, that is. Pd rather hear them sing that cLordy, Lordy Blues' than eat."
—Aunt Molly Jackson.
I BEEN A BAD, BAD GIRL
/, No. 692. Ozella Jones, State Penitentiary, Raiford, Fla., 1936.
If the Bessie Smith enthusiasts could hear Ozella Jones or some other clear-voiced Southern Negro girl sing the blues, they might, we feel, soon forget their idol with her brassbound, music-hall throat. The blues, sung
by an unspoiled singer in the South, sung without the binding restrictions of conventional piano accompaniment or orchestral arrangement, grow up like a wild flowering vine in the woods. Their unpredictable, incalculably-tender melody bends and then swings and shivers with the lines like a reed moving in the wind. The blues then show clearly their country origin, their family connection with the "holler."
i I been a bad, bad girl, wouldn5 treat nobody right, I been a bad, bad girl, wouldn5 treat nobody right, They want to give me thirty-five years, some one wanted to take my life.
2  Judge, please don't kill me, I won't be bad no mo?, Judge, please don't kill me, I won't be bad no mo', I'll listen to ev'ybody, something I never done befo'.
3   Now I'm so sorry, even the day I was born, Now I'm so sorry, even the day I was born,
I want to say to all you bad fellas that you are in the wrong.
4  I'm sittin' here in prison with my black cap on, I'm sittin' here in prison with my black cap on. Boys, remember this even when I am gone.
5  Now I'm so sorry, even the day I was born, Now I'm so sorry, even the day I was born,
I want to say to all you bad fellas that you are in the wrong. 
 SUN GONNA SHINE IN MY DOOR SOME DAY
aK No. 1331. Ace. on accordion and sung by Jesse Harris (blind), Livingston, Ala., 1937.
We once asked Jelly Roll Morton, hot composer and pianist, what instru­ments the boys were playing in country towns in Mississippi and Alabama in 1901 and 1902. "They didn't have nothing/5 he said, "only a bunch of guys on the street corners and in those little low-life honky-tonks that would sing the blues all day, the same thing over and over and in between times, beat on some old guitar, or blow a harmonica or pull on a windjammer until they could think of the next verse."
Blind Jesse Harris, now dead, was pulling on his old accordion even longer ago in the country around Livingston, Alabama. In those days it might have had two lungs, but when we recorded him it only had one. With that one lung, nevertheless, Jesse could play more blues than most two-handed piano combinations—in between times while he was thinking of the ntxt verse.

1   Been in dat jailhouse, expectin' a fine,
Looked through the door, no friend could I find.
Chorus:
It's no matter, Lord, I know,
Sun gonna shine in my door some day.
2  Standin' 'round here hungry, ain't got a dime, Look like my friends ought to come see me some time.
3   Me and my buddy, got thick and thin. My buddy got away, but I got in.
4  Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lord,
Used to be your reg'lar, now Pve got to be your dog.
THE RISING SUN BLUES
e. No. 1404. Georgia Turner, Middlesboro, Ky., 1937-Other stanzas, Bert Morton, Manchester, Ky., No. 1496.
The fact that a few of the hot jazzmen who were in the business before the war have a distant singing acquaintance with this song, indicates that it is fairly old as blues tunes go. None of them, however, has information at his fingertips about the mother who ran a "blue-jean" shop, about the "house they call the Rising Sun," or about the young lady it proved the ruin of. We have heard it sung only by Southern whites. "Rising Sun," as a name for a bawdy house, occurs in a number of unprintable songs of English origin.

 
 i There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun, IPs been the ruin of many poor girl, and me, O God, for one.
2   If I had listened what Mamma said, Pd V been at home today, Being so young and foolish, poor boy, let a rambler lead me astray.
3   Go tell my baby sister never do like I have done,
To shun that house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun.
4  My mother she's a tailor, she sold those new blue jeans,
My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord, drinks down in New Orleans.
5  The only thing a drunkard needs is a suitcase and a trunk, The only time he's satisfied is when he's on a drunk.
6  Fills his glasses to the brim, passes them around,
Only pleasure he gets out of life is hoboin' from town to town.
7  One foot is on the platform and the other one on the train, I'm going back to New Orleans, to wear that ball and chain.
8   Going back to New Orleans, my race is almost run,
Going back to spend the rest of my life beneath that Rising Sun.
BIG FAT WOMAN
do. No. 255. Negro quartet, Bellewood Farms, Atlanta, Ga., 1936. 
  
  
 i Lord, a big fat woman with the meat shakin' on her bones, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy, Big fat woman with the meat shakin' on her bones, Every time she wibble, a poor man's dollar gone.
2  I don't want no sugar sprinkled in my tea, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy, Don't want sugar sprinkled in my tea, Lord, the gal I got is sweet enough for me.
3   I don't want no black woman to fry no meat for me, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy,
No black woman to fry no meat for me,
'Cause she's so black and evil I'm scared might pizen me.
4  Lord, a brown-skinned woman make a preacher lay his Bible down, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy,
Brown-skinned woman make a preacher lay his Bible down, But a jet-black woman make a jack rabbit hug a hound.
5  The blues jumped a rabbit and run him for a solid mile, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy,
 
Blues jumped a rabbit and run him for a solid mile. When the blues overtook him, he cried like a baby child.
6 When a woman gets the blues, she hang her head and cry, Doggone my soul, hey, Lordy, Lordy, Woman get the blues, she hang her head and cry, When a man gets the blues he catch that train and rides. 
 I'M A STRANGER HERE
/. No. 541. Ace. on guitar and sung- by Mrs. Louise Henson, San Antonio, Texas, 1937.
They say Bix Beiderbecke has been the only white man who could sing the blues. We submit that this is a limited view, for the blues have been for some time common property of Negro and white singers, although the crea­tive source has been with the Negroes until recently. The two following tunes of Mrs. Henson's, a San Antonio "hill-billy" singer, are of Negro deriva­tion 3 yet despite their texts they show a developing quality quite their own.
i Hitch up my buggy, saddle up my black mare, Hitch up my buggy, saddle up my black mare, Goin' to find me a fairy in this world somewhere.
Chorus:
I'm a stranger here, I'm a stranger ev'rywhere, I would go home but, honey, I'm a stranger there.
2   I'm worried now, but I won't be worried long, Pm worried now, but I won't be worried long, It takes a worried man to sing a worried song.
3   Baby caught that Katy, she left me a mule to ride, Baby caught that Katy, she left me a mule to ride, When the train pulled out that mule laid down and died.
4  Looked down that road as far as I could see, Looked down that road as far as I could see, And a little bitty hand kept a-wavin' back at me.
5  When you get a woman, man, you better get you two, When you get a woman, boy, you better get you two, 'Cause you never can tell what a woman goin' to do.
6  I'm goin' back home, I'm goin5 to settle down,
I'm goin' back home, Lord, I'm goin' to settle down, 'Cause I ain't no dog and I won't be dogged around.
I'M WORRIED NOW BUT I WON'T BE WORRIED LONG
/. No. 541. Acc. on guitar and sung by Mrs. Louise Henson, San Antonio, Texas, 1937. 
  
 1   Went to sleep, babe, last night in a snow-white feather bed, I woke up this mornin' with the blues all around my head, Pm worried now but I won't be worried long.
2  See the sun rose this morning I was sleepin' on the floor, I had no one to love me and I had no place to go,
Pm worried now but I won't be worried long.
3  This world is so crooked until you don't know what to do, Each time you try to hold your head up, some one's downing you, Pm worried now but I won't be worried long.
4  'Druther be down on a river sitting out on a holler log Than to have my sweet baby treat me like a dog,
Pm worried now but I won't be worried long.
5  Going to Waco next summer, ain't comin' back till fall, If I don't get the one I want, ain't comin' back at all, Pm worried now but I won't be worried long.
LINES FROM THE BLUES
Woman Blues
It's so cold and shiny till the birds can't hardly sing,
I wouldn't hate it so much, but she soak my diamond ring.
Then I asked the doctor to give me some strychnine,
To stop that brown-skinned woman from rollin' 'cross my mind.
The doctor told me to lay my head on Jay Gould's railroad iron, And 1009 would ease my trouble' mind.
I been drinkin' plenty sody water to keep my nature down, And you know when I get started I'm hell, hell all over town.
I ain't no monkey and you never seen me climb no tree, I can't see why you want to make a monkey outa me.
It was late last night when I fell across my bed,
I didn't have no pretty baby to hold my achin' head.
"Don't you mistreat her because she's young and wild, I want you to remember that you've once been a child."
Goin' to snatch me a palin' off my back-yard fence, Goin' whale my baby till she learn some sense.
I went down to the depot and looked upon the board, Asked the operator which way my brown-skin woman go.
He says, "If you'll 'scribe yo' woman, I'll tell you which way she's gone." I says, "She's a seal-skinned brown, chocolate to the bone."
My woman "got a tooth and it glisten in the sun, Soon as she git able, gonna give me one.
Don' write no letter, telegram may get lef', I want to see you, baby, talk with you myself.
"Gimme a few risings, settings of that lonesome sun I'll be back, baby, don't you break and run."
"Baby, baby, would you cry about a lonesome dime, You got a home as long as I got mine."
What makes your rooster crow about the dawn of day? To let the kid man know the workingman's on his way.
The stars is fallin', it ain't long time till day, That's to notify Teddie that the Big Bear's on his way.
I'm goin' where the water tastes like sherry wine, Cause the water roun' here taste like turpentine.
Ain't it hard to stumble when you ain't got no place to fall? In this wide world I ain't got no place at all.
Levee Camp Blues
Oh, the long line skinner gets a dollar a day, But the short line skinner gets hell to pay.
Captain, captain, don't you think it's mighty hard Work me all day on 'lasses and lard?
Oh, the nigger lick 'lasses, white folks lick 'em, too, I wonder what in the world a po' Mexican's gonna do.
You know, captain, I ain't to blame^
You can't get the harness on Stavin' Chain.
He shake his head and he jump so high, I'm 'fraid he might kick me an' I might die.
Chain Gang Blues
Some on the right of way, some on the farm3
Some in the chain gang, buddy, and some gone home.
I used to be a bully jest like you,
And now you see what bull'in' has brought me to.
Wake up, lifetime man, hold up your head,
Well, you may get a pardon and you may drop dead.
Mamma have told me, have come to pass,
Says, "Drinkin' an' gamblin' be your ruin at las'."
Pm lyin' in jail with my back turned to the wall, Thinkin' 'bout my baby, I done lost it all.
If I leave here walking, captain, you'll know Pm free, If I leave here runnin', captain, don't follow me.
If you beat me to the Brazis, to the Brazis line, Captain, I'll be sillum seen, captain, and hard to find.
You boys listen what the caftain said}
ccIf you work well, give you cold com bread,
If you wonyt work, Pll kill you dead"