Blue Ridge Country

Come and listen to my story

Of fair Rosanna McCoy.

She loved young Jonse Hatfield,

Old Devil Anse’s boy.

But the McCoys and Hatfields

Had long engaged in strife,

And never the son of a Hatfield

Should take a McCoy to wife.

But when they met each other,

On Blackberry Creek, they say,

She was riding behind her brother,

When Jonse came along that way.

“Who is that handsome fellow?”

She asked young Tolbert McCoy.

Said he, “Turn your head, sister.

That’s Devil Anse’s boy.”

But somehow they met each other,

And it grieved the Hatfields sore;

While Randall, the young girl’s father,

Turned his daughter from the door.

It was down at old Aunt Betty’s

They were courting one night, they say,

When down came Rosanna’s brothers

And took young Jonse away.

Rosanna’s heart was heavy,

For she hoped to be his wife,

And well she knew her brothers

Would take his precious life.

She ran to a nearby pasture

And catching a horse by the mane,

She mounted and rode like a soldier,

With neither saddle nor rein.

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

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

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

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

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

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

’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.

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

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