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Griffith telegraphed two days later from New York to Lloyd Lewis in Chicago, "Send verses Foggy Dew stop tune haunts me but am not sure of words stop please do this as I am haunted by the song. I wooed her in the winter-time And in the summer, too; And the only, only thing I did that was wrong, Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
He reminds me of the winter-time And of the summer too; And the many, many times that I held her in my arms, Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. Its stately diction might be compared to certain laced ladies and ruffled gentlemen imprisoned in fine porcelain works of Eng- land a century or two ago. It is a deep heart cry, too profound and prolonged to be called poignant, yet shaken with memory of passion. Turn sil-ver. When roses blow, in wintry snow, Then will my love return to me. Oh, waillie!
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But love is bonnie A little while when it is new! But it grows old and waxeth cold, And fades away like evening dew. It is a monotone of life in songtones of dusk colors and rhythms that emerge from shadows. The final verse is a scenario for a pantomime. After a recital and reception there one evening three years ago, we held a song and story session lasting till five o'clock in the morning. Nearly all nations and the seven seas were repre- sented.
They put their arms on each other's shoulders, stood in a circle, and cried the lines almost as a ritual from lonesome flat lands, the arms on each other's shoulders signifying that no matter how tough life might be they could meet it if they stood together. They pronounced "wind" with a long "i" as in "find" or "blind," and said the cowhands always sang it in that classical manner. They heeded not his dying prayer, They buried him there on the lone prairie, In a little box just six by three, His bones now rot on the lone prairie.
They go to a soft, brave melody. Gordon, from whose handsome collection this comes, says it reckons among authen- tic folk fabrics; he has heard it with slight variations in several southern regions. Its lyric cry is brief, poignant as Sappho. Its measures are close to silence and to art "to be overheard rather than heard. They tell of it, "Time and usage have given this song almost the dignity of a national anthem around Nassau.
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The weathered ribs of the historic craft lie imbedded in the sand at Governor's Harbor, whence an expedi- tion, especially sent up for the purpose in , extracted a knee of horseflesh and a ring-bolt. These relics arc now preserved and built into the Watch Tower, designed by Mr. Howard Shaw and built on our southern coast a couple of points east by north of the star Canopus.
I - J v Oh, we come on the sloop John B. Lein-megoh Lem-me go home! I feel so" break-up I want to go home! Round Nassau Town we did roam, Drinking all night, we got in a fight, I feel so break-up I want to go home! Lemme go home! I feel so break-up I want to go home! Constable come aboard an' take him away. Johnstone, please let me alone. Lemme go home, I want to go home! Di is de worst trip since I been born! He is related to John Hardy, as balladry goes, but wears brighter bandannas.
The harmonization is by Thorvald Otterstrom: it is massive in its pounding and evokes the atmosphere in which the powerful titan, John Henry, "does his stuff. I'm throwin' twelve poun' from my hips on down, Jes' lissen to de coP steel ring, Jes' lissen to de col' steel ring! De las' words I heard de pore boy say: " Son, yo're gonna be a steel-drivin' man, Son, yo're gonna be a steel-drivin' man! De las' words I heard de pore gal say: " I'm goin' w'eah mah man went down, I'm goin' w'eah mah man went down!
De las' words I heard de pore gal say: " I'm goin' w'eah mah man drapt daid, I'm goin' w'eah mah man drapt daid! W'eah did you git dose shoes so fine? Got dat dress f'm off a railroad man, An' shoes f'm a driver in a mine, An' shoes f'm a driver in a mine. It is impressionistic in style, delivering the substance of two lives in brief array. We see the man behind the bars looking out toward Roberta, who carries a document given her by some politician or precinct worker. The warden tells her, probably, the day is not Visitor's Day.
As her man considers that he has twenty years yet to serve, he cries out that he would rather be under the wheels of a fast midnight train. Moderately fast Yon - der come Ro - ber - ta!
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Tell me how do you know? By de col - or of her a - pron. HI She says to the cap - 'n: "I want my man! Oh, twen-ty long years Umberella on her shoulder, piece o' paper in her han', She says to de cap'n: " I want my man! This is arranged from the ballad as sung by Arthur Sutherland and the buccaneers of the Eclectic Club of Wesleyan University. This is as far back as we have to date traced the Alice B. Though the verses have wicked and violent events for a theme, they point a moral and adorn a tale in their conclusion. In a sense it is propaganda in favor of the Volstead Act.
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I'm goin' out West,. On a Sunday morning, with hardly any warning, He shot and killed his high-brown Alice B. In his hand he carried a smokin' forty-one; He ran up to de co't, says: " Judge, I committed that terrible crime, And now I'm ready for to serve my ninety-and-nine. She says: " Mammy, I want you to take care of my little girl.
Keep her feet from slippin' through, 'cause I love her, 'deed I do, An' I hopes to meet her in that other worlY' 5 De judge held co't de very next day; Martin F. He says: " Judge, I killed my baby, my Alice B. We had such good times, together all the time; Till one night I went out, got filled with nigger gin, An' when I saw her I completely los' my min'.
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You may go out some night, get filled with squirrel rum, An' do the very same thing that Martin has done. It is also heard among post-graduates from jail in the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas. Of course, though this is a jail song, it is sung by many who are free and " outside. She ran a -way with an - oth - er man, po' boy! I get to thinkin' of the woman I love; She ran away with another man. They got the bloodhounds on me, And chased me up a tree; And then they said, " Come down, my boy, And go to the penitentiaree.
Chorus: Hung down my head in shame, po' boy, Hung down my head and cried; I looked in the window, saw the woman I love, Hung down my head and cried, po' boy!
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While me ten - der moth- er her hair she ture. Of course, the statistical information that a dollar a day is all they pay for work on the boulevard does not interest a sleepy child, but as crooned by Robert E. Lee, of the Chicago Tribune, the word "boul-e-vard" has comforting and sooth- ing quality. Lee heard the song from an Irishman in charge of the railroad station at Wallingford, Iowa. While selling passenger tickets, or making out way-bills, or figuring freight demurrage, or hustling trunks off and on baggage cars, or piling crates of eggs, "the agent" would ease his heart with this lullaby.
A dol - lar a day is all they pay For work on the botil - e - s senza cresc. Sh - ta - ra - dah- dey, sh - ta - dey, Times is might - y hard,. A dollar a day is all they pay For work on the boulevard.