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BLUE GRASS BALLADS
From his chair, high on a table,
In the happy, old-time days, There the fiddler, gray &nd sable,
Stamps a foot and gaily plays: Plays his " Hear de Bells a-Ringing,"
Then his " Snowbird at de Do'," While he calls the figures, singing:
" Swing dem cawnders! " " Forrid fo'!
His favorite, " Old Leather Breeches,"
Rings thro' memory in my ear, And his singing, " Full er Stitches,"
Blends with rattling "Forked Deer." All the girls in linsey dresses,
All the boys in homemade jeans, When they swing, each rascal presses
Close the girl that on him leans.
You may have the stately " lancers "; ' Give me back the other days, And the jolly, romping dancers,
Seen thro' memory's thick'ning haze, Those were sweet days, I remember,
Just as these will be to all, When they see, from life's November,
Where the length'ning shadows fall.