Category: Song Lyrics

Old Molly Hare

Old Molly Hare what you doin’ there?
Sittin’ by the fireplace smokin’ my cigar.

Jump back, jump back, daddy shot a bear
Shot him in the eye and he never touched a hair.

Old Molly Hard what you doin’ there?
Runnin’ through the cotton patch as fast as I can tear.

Old Molly Hare what you doin’ there?
Sittin’ in the butter dish pickin’ out a hair.

I’d rather be here than to be over there
A whole mess of cockleberries tangled in my hair.

The following collected by Robert Gordon from W.E. Bird
Cullowhee, NC October

Old Joe Clark

Old Blue

New River Train

Muley’s Daugher

Mama Don’t Allow

Mama don’t ‘low no guitar pickin’ ‘round here,
Mama don’t ‘low no guitar pickin’ ‘round here.
I don’t care what mama don’t allow, pick my guitar anyhow,
Mama don’t ‘low no guitar pickin’ ‘round here.

Mama don’t ’low no banjo pickin’ ‘round here,
Mama don’t ‘low no banjo pickin’ ‘round here.
I don’t care what mama don’t allow, pick my banjo anyhow,
Mama don’t ‘low no banjo pickin’ ‘round here.

Mama don’t ‘low no fiddle playin’ ‘round here,
Mama don’t ‘low no fiddle playin’ ‘round here.
I don’t care what mama don’t allow, play my fiddle anyhow,

Lynchburg Town

Who’s goin’ down to town
Who’s goin’ down to town
Who’s goin’ down to Wilmington
To carry my tobacco ‘round.

Once I had an old big dog
I wished they’d bring him back
Run them big hogs over the fence
And the little ones through the cracks.

Well, I married a little gal
And I brought her from the South
She balled her hair so doggone tight
She couldn’t shut her mouth.

Possum up a ‘simmon tree
Raccoon on the ground
Raccoon said, you son of a gun,
Throw them ‘simmons down.

Possom shake the tree ‘Simmons start

Love of the Mountains

© by Allen Mills, Poplar Camp Music (BMI) Used by Permission.

Two trees on a hillside of the mountain,
Always looking up towards the sky.
Remind me of my papa and my mama,
Who lived there eighty years before they died.

Chorus:
Now a bright moon is shining in the valley,
An old wagon leans against a stack of hay.
Two graves on a hillside by a cabin,
My mom and dad are resting there today.

The burning of the green wood in the fireplace,
The fallen snow around the red bud trees.
The branches of

Lonesome Road Blues

I’m going down this road feeling bad,
I’m going down this road feeling bad.
I’m going down this road feeling bad, Lord, Lord,
And I ain’t gonna be treated this a-way.

I’m way down in jail on my knees,
I’m way down in jail on my knees.
I’m way down in jail on my knees, Lord, Lord,
And I ain’t gonna be treated this a-way.

They feed me on cornbread and beans,
They feed me on cornbread and beans.
They feed me on cornbread and beans, Lord, Lord,
And I ain’t gonna be treated this a-way.

Two

Little Sadie