Man Of Constant Sorrow
I am a man of constant sorrow I've seen trouble all of my days;
I'll bid farewell to old Kentucky the place where I was born and raised.
Six long year I've been blind, friends my pleasures here on earth are done,
In this world I have to ramble for I have no parents to help me now.
So fare you well my own true lover I fear I never see you again,
For I'm bound to ride the Northern railroad perhaps I'll die upon the train.
You may bury me in some deep valley for many year there I may lay.
When you're dreaming while you're slumbering while I am sleeping in the clay.
Fare you well to my native country the place where I have loved so well,
For I have all kinds of trouble in this vain world no tongue can tell.
Dear friends, although I may be a stranger my face you may never see no more;
But there's a promise that is given where we can meet on that beautiful shore
(Ghost) Riders In The Sky
An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day
Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way
When all at once a mighty herd of red-eyed cows he saw
Plowing through the ragged skies, and up a cloudy draw
Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel
Their horns were black and shiny, and their hot breath he could feel
A bolt of fear went through him as they thundered through the sky
For he saw the riders coming hard, and he heard their mournful cry
Ghost riders in the sky
Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat
He's riding hard to catch that herd, but he ain't caught them yet
Because they've got to ride forever on that range up in the sky
On horses snortin' fire, as they ride on, hear their cry
As the riders loped on by him, he heard one call his name
If you wanna save your soul from Hell, riding on our range
Then cowboy, change your ways today, or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the Devil's herd, across these endless skies
Ghost riders in the sky Ghost riders in the sky
Money Is A Hard Thing To Borrow
The times are so “tight” for the cash is hard to get,
Though all hope they’ll have some tomorrow
And ev’ry one looks “blue” and are in such a pet,
Finding money is a hard thing to borrow.
So take down your “shingle” and shut up your shop,
For money is a hard thing to borrow,
So take down your “shingle” and shut up your shop,
For money is a hard thing to borrow.
“Yes indeed.”
The banker he looks brave as you ask him for the chink
But he pays out the “ready” with sorrow,
For he cannot stand a “run”and he now begins to think
That money is a hard thing to borrow
The merchant is cast down with loaded shelves in view,
And no customer buys to his sorrow
For soon from New York he will get a billet doux,
For money is a hard thing to borrow.
The politician stares, office costs a mighty “lump,”
And the mouth of his purse is so narrow.
It was just to get some cash, that he got upon the stump,
Knowing money is a hard thing to borrow.
The whiskey maker sighs, for the drough has kill’d the corn
And he looks on his prospects with horror,
For he knows his friends won’t stick when he hasn’t got a “horn,”
Finding money is a hard thing to borrow.
But honest men ne’er fear, though there come a mighty crash
And a note should fall due on the morrow.
Just call on your friends, they will spare a little cash,
Though money is a hard thing to borrow
I'll Never Be A Slave Again
I'll never be a slave again, nor bend the knee to man,
No more I'll wear the clanking chain nor live beneath the ban;
I've hoped, through years of toil and care to see this golden hour.
And now I breath sweet Freedom's air and feel its holy pow'r.
I'll live and die for our old flag, ever shall it reign
I'll never see its splendor fade nor be a slave again.
I fought beneath the dear old flag for freedom, peace and right,
And saw the dark clouds roll away before our country's might;
And now that I am truly free upon Columbia's shore,
A slave I never more will be as in dark days of yore.
I'll never be a slave again to wine and all its wiles
I see the demon 'neath the mask and do not feed its smiles;
I'll have no master on the earth I'll yield to nought but love,
That I may live and die to please The One who rules above
Big Rock Candy Mountain
On a summer’s day in the month of May a burly bum came hiking.
Down a shady lane with a sugar cane he was looking for his liking
As he strolled along he sang a song of a land of milk and honey
Where a bum can stay for many a day and he don’t need any money.
The buzzing of the bees in the cigarette trees the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings in the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains the cops have wooden legs,
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth and the hens lay soft-boiled eggs.
The farmers’ trees are full of fruit the barns are full of hay.
I want to go where there ain’t no snow where the rain don’t fall
And the wind don’t blow in the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains you never wash your socks
And the little streams of alcohol come trickling down the rocks.
There’s a lake of stew and whiskey too and you paddle around in a big canoe,
Where they hung the turk who invented work in the Big Rock Candy Mountains
Battle Hymn Of The Republic
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.
I have read His fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel;
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel
Since God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
No comments:
Post a Comment