Chapter 16
Her golden hair streamed behind her, Her eyes were wild and bright, As she urged her swift steed forward And galloped away in the night.
Straight to the Hatfields' stronghold, She rode so fearless and brave, To tell them that Jonse was in danger And beg them his life to save.
And the Hatfields rode in a body. They saved young Jonse's life; But never, they said, a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife.
But the feud is long forgotten And time has healed the sting, As little Bud and Melissy This song of their kinsmen sing.
No longer it is forbidden That a fair-haired young McCoy Shall love her dark-eyed neighbor Or marry a Hatfield boy.
And the people still remember, Though she never became his bride, The love of these young people And Rosanna's midnight ride.
--Coby Preston
LEGEND
THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST
Through the southern mountains the Robin is often called the "Christ Bird" because of this legend. It is also called "Love Bird."
The Savior hung upon the cross, His body racked with mortal pain; The blood flowed from His precious wounds And sweat dropped from His brow like rain.
A crown of thorns was on His head, The bitter cup He meekly sips; His life is ebbing fast away, A prayer upon His blessed lips.
No mercy found He anywhere, He said, "My Father knoweth best." A little bird came fluttering down And hovered near his bleeding breast.
It fanned His brow with gentle wings, Into the cup it dipped its beak; And gazed in pity while He hung And bore His pain so calm and meek.
At last the bird it flew away And sought the shelter of its nest; Its feathers dyed with crimson stain, The Savior's blood upon its breast.
The lowly robin, so 'tis said, That comes to us in early spring, Is that which hovered near the cross And wears for aye that crimson stain.
--Martha Creech
JENNIE WYLIE
Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was a native of Ireland. They lived on Walker's Creek in what is now Tazewell County, Virginia. She was captured by the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimes called Adam Pre Vard Wiley.
Among the hills of old Kentucky, When homes were scarce and settlers few, There lived a man named Thomas Wylie, His wife and little children two.
They left their home in old Virginia, This youthful pair so brave and strong. And built a cabin in the valley Where fair Big Sandy flows along.
Poor Thomas left his home one morning, He kissed his wife and children dear; He little knew that prowling Indians Around his home were lurking near.
They waited in the silent woodland Till came the early shades of night; Poor Jennie and her young brother Were seated by the fireside bright.
They peeped inside the little cabin And saw the children sleeping there. These helpless ones were unprotected And Jennie looked so white and fair.
They came with tomahawks uplifted And gave the war whoop fierce and wild; Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby; They killed her brother--her oldest child.
They took poor Jennie through the forest And while they laughed in fiendish glee, A redskin took the baby from her And dashed out its brains against a tree.
They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio's shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more.
For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day.
Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie's name.
She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide. The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side.
Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold.
--Luke Burchett
MOUNTAIN PREACHER
When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year.
And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek.
I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good.
And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God's own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above.
Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy's people, Though your earthly form is molding 'neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God.
--D. Preston
CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS
This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.
Have you been to church in the mountains? 'Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow.
Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns.
So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord.
Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God.
Through years--it's been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade.
There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand.
They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God's love, Telling of home that's waiting In the mansions up above.
Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun.
--Jessie Stewart
MOUNTAIN DOCTOR
This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin' Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as classics."
A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago. The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay.
The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near.
The doctor owned a faithful horse, He rode him night and day; He had nothing but a bridle path To guide him on his way.
The panther was his dreadful foe, It often lingered near; The doctor always went well armed, He seemed to have no fear.
He made himself a nice warm coat From the pelt of a brown woolly bear; Often I loved to trace its length With eager hands through shaggy hair.
The forepaws fitted round his wrists, The hind parts reached to his thighs, And of the head he made a cap That sheltered both his ears and eyes.
The doctor dearly loved the woods, He was raised there from a child; He was very fond of old-time ways, If you scoffed them, he would chide.
He was good and sympathetic, He traveled night and day; He doctored many people, Regardless of the pay.
Nels Tatum Rice was his name, He was known for miles around; Far beyond the county seat, 'Long the Big Sandy up and down.
His mother wove his winter clothes, As a boy he'd case their furs; With them to the county seat, But once a year he'd go.
The merchant he would buy the fur, It gladdened the boy's heart. He had money in his jeans, When for home he did start.
Boys, them days was full of glee, Both husky, fat and strong. Nels very soon retraced his steps, It didn't take him long.
Safely, of home once more in sight, The boy quite glad did feel. For he could hear old Shep dog bark, Hear the hum of the spinning wheel.
--Jilson Setters
MOUNTAIN WOMAN
'Tain't no use a-sittin' here And peerin' at the sun, A-wishin' I had purty things, Afore my work is done. I best had bug the taters And fetch water from the run And save my time fer wishin' When all my work is done.
Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin' This morning on the hill, And taken him his rifle-gun And tonic fer his chill. Menfolks ain't got no larnin' And have no time to fill; Paw spends his days in huntin' Or putterin' round his still.
"'Tain't no use complainin'" Is the song the wood thrush sings, And I don't know of nothin' That's as sweet as what he brings. But I best had comb my honey And churn that sour cream, And listen to the wood thrush When I ketch time to dream.
Sometimes I feel so happy As I hoe the sproutin' corn; To hear, far off upon the ridge, The call of Paw's cow horn. Then I know it's time for milkin' And my long day's work is through, And I kin sit upon the stoop And make my dreams come true.
I'll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe, And some dishes, an ax and a saw: And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow And a new houn' dawg fer Paw.
--John W. Preble, Jr.
WOMAN'S WAY
You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say: I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair; I made it when my heart was light and gay. Like me, it's much the worse for time and wear. I used it first upon my marriage bed-- And last, when Thomas, my poor man, lay dead.
This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed, My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year; I meant for her to claim it when she wed-- Excuse me, Miss, I couldn't help that tear. She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud-- Before the day, we used it for her shroud.
That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day, Before I married Tom, made that for me. A thrifty wife, I used to hear her say, Has kiverlids that all who come may see. She rests there on the knoll f'nenst the rise-- The little grave is where my youngest lies.
Dove at the Window was my mother's make, Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one, Old Maid's Ramble and The Lady of the Lake I made for Ned, my oldest son. Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day. "Like Joseph's coat of many colors, Ma," he'd say.
The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister's make, She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill, Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux, She sits alone because it was her will. A wife she never would consent to be, For Jane, she loved the man that favored me.
--Martha Creech
MOUNTAIN SINGERS
What song is this across the mountain side, Where every leaf bears elements of Him Who is all music? Silences abide With rock and stone. A conscious seraphim Directs the measure, when the need of song Arrives to set the spirit free again. The Mountain Singers, traipsin' along To woody trail and a cabin in the rain, Bring native music fit to cut apart Old enemies with gunshot for the heart. With Singin' Gatherin' and Infare still intact, The Mountain Singers make of ghost, a fact.
--Rachel Mack Wilson
TRAGEDY
THE ASHLAND TRAGEDY
One Christmas morn in eighty-one, Ashland, that quiet burg, Was startled--the day had not yet dawned-- When the cry of fire was heard.
For well they knew two fair ladies Had there retired to bed. The startled crowd broke in, alas, To find the girls both dead.
And from the hissing, seething flames Three bodies did rescue; Poor Emma's and poor Fannie's both, And likewise Bobby's too.
And then like Rachel cried of old The bravest hearts gave vent, And all that blessed holiday To Heaven their prayers were sent.
Autopsy by the doctors show'd The vilest of all sin, And proved to all beyond a doubt Their skulls had been drove in.
And other crimes too vile to name; I'll tell it if I must; A crime that shocks all common sense, A greed of hellish lust.
An ax and crowbar there was found Besmeared with blood and hair, Which proved conclusively to all What had transpired there.
Two virgin ladies of fourteen, The flower of that town, With all their beauty and fond hopes, By demons there cut down--
Just blooming into womanhood, So lovely and so true; Bright hopes of long and happy days With morals just and pure.
Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth, Was scarcely known to fail, And in ten days had the assassins All safely placed in jail.
George Ellis, William Neal and Craft, Some were Kentucky's sons, Near neighbors to the Gibbons' house And were the guilty ones.
In this here dark and bloody ground They were true types indeed, Of many demons dead and dam'd Who fostered that same greed.
A hellish greed of lust to blast The virtuous and fair, To gratify that vain desire No human life would spare.
There Emma Thomas lay in gore, A frightful sight to view; Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp, And Bob, her brother, too.
Bob was a poor lame crippled boy, Beloved by everyone; His mother's hope, his sister's joy, A kind, obedient son.
At that dread sight the mother's grief No mortal tongue can tell. A broken heart, an addled brain, When all should have been well.
Both her dear children lying there, Who once so merry laughed. There stiff and stark in death they lay, Cut down by Ellis Craft.
That dreadful demon, imp of hell, Consider well his crime; Although he was a preacher's son, Has blackened the foot of time.
--Peyton Buckner Byrne
This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne of Greenup, Greenup County, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the murdered girl's name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early '80's in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoins Greenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because of the many hangings which occurred there in the days of the Civil War. Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in that County and one of his scholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the old schoolteacher's ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd County, not far from Ashland where he committed the crime.
THE MORAL OF THE BALLAD
There's a sad moral to this tale. Now pass the word around; Pull off your shoes now and walk light; Ashland is holy ground.
Bill Neal he came from Virginia, A grand and noble State, But his associates were bad And he has shared their fate.
Bill Neal he saw Miss Emma Thomas, So beautiful and fair That all his hellish greed of lust Seemed to be centered there.
Bill Neal he was a married man, Had children and a wife; And ofttimes bragged what he would do, If it should cost his life.
Bill Neal done what he said he would, And yet a greater sin; Then with a great big huge crowbar Broke Emma's skullbones in.
Yes, Bill Neal done just what he said, And yet that greater sin, For which the gates of Heaven closed And will not let him in.
Now while his victim is in Heaven, Where all things are done well, There with the angels glorified, Bill Neal will go to hell.
THE DEATH OF MARY PHAGAN
Leo M. Frank, manager of the pencil factory, was a Jew. Sentiment ran high against him at the time of the murder. This ballad was composed by young Bob Salyers of Cartersville, Georgia, who heard the story on all sides. He could neither read nor write.
Come listen all ye maidens, A story I'll relate Of pretty Mary Phagan And how she met her fate.
Her home was in Atlanta And so the people say, She worked in a pencil factory To earn her meager pay.
She went down to the office One April day, it's said; The next time that they saw her, Poor Mary, she was dead.
They found her outraged body-- Oh, hear the people cry-- "The fiend that murdered Mary Most surely he must die."
James Conley told the story, "'Twas Leo Frank," he said, "He strangled little Mary And left her cold and dead."
Now Frank was tried for murder, His guilt he did deny. But the jury found him guilty And sentenced him to die.
His life he paid as forfeit; And then there came a time Another man lay dying, And said he did the crime.
We do not know for certain, But in the Judgment Day, We know that God will find him And surely make him pay.
--Bob Salyers
THE FATE OF EFFIE AND RICHARD DUKE
Oh, hearken to this sad warning, You husbands who love your wife, Don't never fly in a passion And take your companion's life.
Of Doctor Rich Duke I will tell you, Who lived up Beaver Creek way, He married fair Effie Allen And loved her well, so they say.
Both Effie and Rich had money, But he was much older than she, And she said, "All your lands and money Should be deeded over to me."
His wife he loved and trusted And he hastened to obey; But the fact he soon regretted That he deeded his riches away.
They quarreled and then they parted, The times were more than three, For both of them were stubborn And they never could agree.
Now Doctor John, his brother, Was a highly respected man, He brought Effie home one evening, Saying, "Make up your quarrel if you can."
And Rich seemed glad to see her, And followed her up the stair, But only God and the angels Know just what happened there.
Doctor John was down at the table When he heard the pistol roar; He ran up the stairs in a moment And looked in at the open door.
Poor Rich lay there by his pistol With a bullet through his brain, And Effie lay there dying Writhing in mortal pain.
They were past all human succor, No earthly power could save; And they took their secrets with them To the land beyond the grave.
Now all you wives and husbands, Take heed to this warning true. Never quarrel over lands and money Or some day the fact you will rue.
--Coby Preston
THE FATE OF FLOYD COLLINS
This ballad was composed in 1925 by Jilson Setters, when Floyd Collins was trapped in a salt mine near Mammoth Cave, Kentucky.
Come all you friends and neighbors And listen to what I say, I'll relate to you a story, Of a man who passed away. He struggled hard for freedom, His heart was true and brave, While his comrades they were toiling His precious life to save.
His name was Floyd Collins, Exploring he did crave. But he never dreamed that he'd be trapped In a lonely sandstone cave. His entrance it was easy, His heart was light and gay, But his mind was filled with trouble When he found he'd lost his way.
He wandered through the cavern, He knew not where to go, He knew he was imprisoned, His heart was full of woe. He started for the entrance That he had passed that day. A large and mighty boulder Had slipped down in his way.
The stone was slowly creeping But that he did not know, Underneath he found an opening He thought that he could go. He soon got tired and worried, He soon then had to rest, The boulder still was creeping, It was tightening on his chest.