Sunday, March 29

Granny Frolic by James Still

Old granny haste your bonnet on and hie to Wolfpen Creek, Go bit and bridle your scar-hocked nag, go rein, go ride and hurry, Sid Gentry's woman's time is nigh and he's a-plague with worry, O he's a-plague with all the signs the almanac can carry. Go riding swift to Wolfpen Creek, on yon side of Dead Mare Hollow, Go chin the ridge, go shoe the trail, go thresh the laurel thicket, For this is Gentry's woman's first, the first child she's a-bearing; And fotch a horn of spirits along to keep Sid in the clearing.

Sid's made a little crib of oak - A cradle short and narrow; He's whittled a poke of pretties And he's tuck a rattler's rattle; He's rid a coon of all its hide. He's cured it thick and furry - But hap it be a girl-child Young Sid will be to bury.

Old Granny gallop. Old Granny lope. Go like a hawk-bird flying, Go split the wind, go fork the night, Go knife the hoot-owl's crying, And fotch a pot o' barley tea, O hurry clap the lid, Bring all your quare needcessites, And bring a nip to Sid;

Young Sid is thorned by all the fears, O he is pale and lorn, For he had hung his pride atop a lean moon's tipply horn

O haste a sawyer and his tools, A coffin-box be ready, For hap it be a girl-child Young Sid will be to bury.

Old Granny alight. Old Granny stay. Come dance a mite for joy, Sid Gentry's firing his pistols off - Hell's bangers, it's a boy.

1 comment:

  1. I love James Still's work; hadn't seen this one.