NEGRO BAD MEN
“One preacher even described Christ as a man who would ‘stand no foolin’ wid.’ ‘Jesus such a great man, no one lak him. Lord, he could pop a lion’s head off jes’ lak he wus fryin’-size chicken, an’ could take a piece o’ mountain top and throw it across the world.’ ”—From Negro Workaday Songs, by Odum and Johnson.
BAD MAN BALLAD *
Late las’ night I was a-makin’ my rounds,
Met my woman an’ I blowed her down,
Went on home an’ I went to bed,
Put my hand cannon right under my head.
Early nex’ mornin’ ’bout de risin’ o’ de sun,
I gets up-a for to make-a my run.
I made a good run but I made it too slow,
Got overtaken in Mexico.
Standin’ on de corno’, readin’ of a bill,
Up step a man name o’ Bad Texas Bill:
“Look here, bully, ain’ yo’ name Lee Brown?
B’lieve you are de rascal shot yo’ woman down.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” says. “This is him.
If you got a warrant, jes’ read it to me.”
He says: “You look like a fellow that knows what’s bes’.
Come ’long wid me—you’re under arres’.”
When I was arrested, I was dressed in black;
Dey put me on a train, an’ dey brought me back.
Dey boun’ me down in de county jail;
Couldn’ get a human for to go my bail.
Early nex’ mornin’ ’bout half pas’ nine,
I spied ol’ jedge drappin’ down de line.
I heered ol’ jailer when he cleared his th’oat,
“Nigger, git ready for de deestreec’ cote.”
Deestreec’ cote is now regin,
Twelve big jurymen, twelve hones’ men.
Five mo’ minutes up step a man,
He was holdin’ my verdic’ in his right han’.
Verdic’ read murder in de firs’ degree.
I said, “O Lawd, have mercy on me.”
I seed ol’ jedge when he picked up his pen,
Say, “I don’ think you’ll ever kill a woman ag’in.
“This here killin’ of women natchly got to stop,
I don’t know whether to hang you er not.
Ninety-nine years on de hard, hard groun’,
’Member de night you blowed de woman down.”
Here I is, bowed down in shame,
I got a number instead of a name.
Here for de res’ of my nachul life,
An’ all I ever done is kill my wife.
***
I went up-a in Tennessee,
Two lil’ womens got stuck on me,
One was name Sal and the other name Sue,
They was a-hustlin’ an’ I was too.
Oh, dey beat me up an’ dey beat me down,
Oh, dey beat me up-a an’ dey beat me down,
Oh, dey beat me up an’ dey beat me down,
Betcha five dollars dey cain’ beat me to town.
PO’ LAZ’US (POOR LAZARUS)*
High sheriff tol’ de deputy, “Go out an’ bring me Laz’us.”
High sheriff tol’ de deputy: “Go out an’ bring me Laz’us.
Bring him dead or alive, Lawd, Lawd, bring him dead or alive.”
Oh, bad man Laz’us done broke in de commissary winder,
Oh, bad man Laz’us done broke in de commissary winder,
He been paid off, Lawd, Lawd, he been paid off.
Oh, de deputy ’gin to wonder, where in de worl’ he could fin’ him;
Oh, de deputy ’gin to wonder, where in de worl’ he could fin’ him;
Well, I don’ know, Lawd, Lawd, I jes’ don’ know.
Oh, dey found’ po’ Laz’us way out between two mountains,
Oh, dey found’ po’ Laz’us way out between two mountains,
An’ dey blowed him down, Lawd, Lawd, an’ dev blowed him down.
Ol’ Laz’us tol’ de deputy he had never been arrested,
Ol’ Laz’us tol’ de deputy he had never been arrested,
By no one man, Lawd, Lawd, by no one man.
So dey shot po’ Laz’us, shot him wid a great big number,
Dey shot po’ Laz’us, shot him wid a great big number,
Number 45, Lawd, Lawd, number 45.
An’ dey taken po’ Laz’us an’ dey laid him on de commissary county,
Dey taken po’ Laz’us an’ dey laid him on de commissary county,
An’ dey walked away, Lawd, Lawd, an’ dey walked away.
Laz’us tol’ de deputy, “Please gimme a cool drink o’ water,
Laz’us tol’ de deputy, “Please gimme a cool drink o’ water,
Jes’ befo’ I die, Lawd, Lawd, jes’ befo’ I die.”
Laz’us’ sister run an’ tol’ her mother,
Laz’us’ sister run an’ tol’ her mother,
Dat po’ Laz’us dead, Lawd, Lawd, po’ Laz’us dead.
Laz’us’ mother, she laid down her sewin’,
Laz’us’ mother, she laid down her sewin’,
’Bout de trouble, Lawd, Lawd, she had wid Laz’us.
Laz’us’ mother she come a-screamin’ an’ a-cryin’,
Laz’us’ mother, she come a-screamin’ an’ a-cryin’,
“Dat’s my only son, Lawd, Lawd, dat’s my only son.”
STAGOLEE
“His real name was Stack Lee and he was the son of the Lee family of Memphis who owned a large line of steamers that ran up and down the Mississippi.”… “He was a nigger what fired the engines of one of the Lee steamers.”… “They was a steamer runnin’ up an’ down de Mississippi, name de Stacker Lee, an’ he was one o’ de roustabouts on dat steamer. So dey called him Stackerlee.” Whoever he was, he was a bad man and he killed Billy Lyons, probably in Memphis some thirty or forty years ago. The A version presents the ballad as it was sung when the tale was new; the B version, the “Stagolee” that is sung in the honky-tonks and barrel-houses throughout Texas and Louisiana today. Ivy Joe White, barrel-house pianist extraordinary of Wiergate, Texas; Alexander Wells, “Little Alex” of the Louisiana State Prison at Angola; and Sullivan Rock, rounder and roustabout on the docks of New Orleans, furnished the words for the B version. Windy Billy of the Louisiana State Prison at Angola sang the air.
Version A—sent, February 9, 1910, by Miss Ella Scott Fisher, San Angelo, Texas: “This is all the verses I remember. The origin of this ballad, I have been told, was the shooting of Billy Lyons in a barroom on the Memphis levee, by Stack Lee. The song is sung by the Negroes on the levee while they are loading and unloading the river freighters, the words being composed by the singers. The characters were prominently known in Memphis, I was told, the unfortunate Stagalee belonging to the family of the owners of the Lee line of steamers, which are known on the Mississippi from Cairo to the Gulf. I give all this to you as it was given to me. The effect of the song with its minor refrain is weird, and the spoken interpolations add to the realism. It becomes immensely personal as you hear it, like a recital of something known or experienced by the singer.”
In August, 1933, a visit to the Memphis levee district and the renowned Beale’s Street region failed to uncover the tune of this text of “Stagalee” or any additional stanzas that would fit the particular rhythm. What echoes of “Stagalee” remained were badly mixed with the Blues and jazzed almost beyond recognition. A special inquiry among several thousand Negro convicts in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Tennessee was likewise fruitless.
[Version A]
’Twas a Christmas morning,
The hour was about ten,
When Stagalee shot Billy Lyons
And landed in the Jefferson pen.
O Lordy, po’ Stagalee!
Billy Lyons’ old woman,
She was a terrible sinner,
She was home that Christmas mornin’
A-preparin’ Billy’s dinner.
O Lordy, po’ Stagalee!
Messenger boy came to the winder,
Then he knocked on the door,
An’ he said, “Yer old man’s lyin’ there
Dead on the barroom floor.”
O Lordy, po’ Stagalee!
“Stagalee, O Stagalee,
What have you gone and done?
You’ve gone and shot my husband
With a forty-four gatlin’ gun.”
O Lordy, etc.
[STAGALEE’S FRIEND:]
“Stagalee, O Stagalee,
Why don’t you cut and run?
For here comes the policeman,
And I think he’s got a gun.”
O Lordy, etc.
[POLICEMAN, a little scared of STAGALEE:]
“Stagalee, O Stagalee,
I’m ’restin’ you just for fun,
The officer jest wants you
To identify your gun.”
O Lordy, etc.
[STAGALEE in jail:]
“Jailer, O Jailer,
I jest can’t sleep;
For the ghost of Billy Lyons
Round my bed does mourn and weep.”
O Lordy, etc.
[COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE:]
“Gentlemen of this jury,
You must let poor Stagalee go;
His poor and aged mammy
Is lyin’ very low.”
O Lordy, etc.
[COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION:]
“Gentlemen of this jury,
Wipe away your tears,
For Stagalee’s aged mammy
Has been dead these ’leven years.”
O Lordy, etc.
Stagalee’s old woman,
She hung around the jail,
And in three days she had him out
On a ten-thousand-dollar bail.
O Lordy, po’ Stagalee!
[Version B]
Stagolee, he was a bad man, an’ ev’body know,
He toted a stack-barreled blow gun an’ a blue steel 44.
Way down in New Orlean’, called de Lyon club,
Ev’y step you walkin’, you walkin’ in Billy Lyon blood.
It was early one mornin’ when I heard my little dog bark,
Stagolee and Billy Lyon was arg’in’ in de dark.
Stagolee and Billy Lyon was gamblin’ one night late,
Stagolee fell seven, Billy Lyon, he fell cotch eight.
Slowly Stack walked from de table, he said, “I can’t let you go wid dat.
You win all of my money an’ my milk-white Stetson hat.”
Stagolee, he went walkin’ right down dat I.C. track,
“I ain’ gonna hurt you now, Billy, bet’ not be here when I get back!”
Next day Stack went runnin’ in de red-hot broilin’ sun,
“Look in my chiffro drawer, Alberta, han’ me my smokeless 41.”
Alberta looked at Stack, said, “Babe, you all out of breath,
You look like you gonna be de cause of somebody’s death.”
Stack took out his Elgin, looked direc’ly at de time,
“I got an argument to settle wid dat bad man, Billy Lyon.”
“Kiss me, good woman, you may not see me when I come back.”
And Stack went runnin’ up dat Great Northern track.
Well, he got outside in front of de barroom, an’ he eased up to de door,
Billy Lyon had his 44 special, pacin’ up an’ down de floor.
Billy Lyon began to scream, “Stack, don’t take my life,
I’ve got five lil helpless chilluns an’ one po’ pitiful wife.”
He shot him three times in the forehead an’ two times in de side,
Said, “I’m goin’ keep on shootin’ till Billy Lyon died.”
Billy Lyon got glassy, an’ he gapped an’ hung his head,
Stack say, “I know by expression on his face dat Billy Lyon dead.”
Mrs. Billy she went runnin’ an’ screamin’: “Stack, I don’ b’lieve it’s so.
You an’ my lil Billy been frien’s since many long years ago.”
Stagolee tol’ Mrs. Billy, “Ef you don’t b’lieve yo’ man is dead,
Come to de barroom, see de hole I shot in his head.”
Mrs. Lyon fell to her knees, an’ she said to her oldes’ son,
“When you git lil bit bigger, gonna buy you a 41.”
“Mama, mama, oh, mama, you sho ain’t talkin’ to me,
He killed po’ papa, now you gonna let him kill me.”
It was early one mornin’, Stagolee looked at de clouds an’ say,
“Baby, it look mighty cloudy, it mus’ be my jedgment day.”
Chief Maloney tol’ his deputies: “Git yo’ rifles an’ come wid me,
We got to arres’ dat bad nigger, Stagolee.”
Oh, de deputies took dey shiny badges, an’ dey laid ’em on de shelf,
“Ef you wants dat nigger, go git him by yo’ own damn self.”
Slowly Chief Maloney, he walked to de barroom door,
Po’ Stagolee was drunk an’ layin’ on de barroom floor.
Chief Maloney said to de bartender, “Who kin dat drunk man be?”
“Speak softly,” said de bartender. “It’s dat bad nigger Stagolee.”
Chief Maloney touch Stack on de shoulder, say, “Stack, why don’ you run?”
“I don’t run, white folks, when I got my 41.”
Stagolee, he tried to get up, staggered, pulled his pistol, could not get it out;
Chief Maloney pulled his pistol, shot de po’ boy in de mouth.
Stagolee he went runnin’ an’ st’agglin’ down Dumaine Street,
Boy, don’ you know de blood was runnin’ from his head down to his feet.
De jedge, he found Stack guilty, de clerk, he wrote it down,
Nex’ col’ winter mornin’ Stack was Angola bound.
It was early one mornin’, one bright summer day,
Chief Maloney ’ceived a wireless—Stack had runned away.
Chief Maloney got his men, an’ he put dem roun’ de town,
“Nex’ time you see Stagolee, be sho to shoot him down.”
***
De hangman put de mask on, tied his han’s behin’ his back,
Sprung de trap on Stagolee, but his neck refused to crack.
Hangman, he got frightened, he said: “Chief, you see how it be,
I cain’ hang this man, you better let him go free.”
Chief Maloney said to de hangman, “Befo’ I’d let him go alive—”
He up wid his police special an’ shot him six times in de side.”
All de mans dey shouted, but de womens put on black an’ mourned
Dat de good man Stagolee has laid down, died, an’ gone.
Dey come a-slippin’ an’ a-slidin’ up an’ down de street,
In deir big mother hubbards an’ deir stockin’ feet.
He had a three-hundred-dollar funeral and a thousand-dollar hearse,
Satisfaction undertaker put him six feet under earth.
When de devil wife see Stack comin’ she got up in a quirl,—
“Here come dat bad nigger an’ he’s jus’ from de udder worl’.”
All de devil’ little chillun went sc’amblin’ up de wall,
Say, “Catch him, pappa, befo’ he kill us all.”
Stack he tol’ de devil, “Come on, le’s have a lil fun,
You stick me wid yo’ pitchfork an’ I’ll shoot you wid my 41.”
Stagolee say, “Now, now, Mister Devil, ef me an’ you gonna have some fun,
You play de cornet, Black Betty beat de drum.”
Stagolee took de pitchfork an’ he laid it on de shelf—
“Stand back, Tom Devil, I’m gonna rule Hell by myself.”
OLD BILL*
Tell ol’ Bill, before he leaves home dis mornin’,
Tell ol’ Bill, before he leaves home dis evenin’,
Tell ol’ Bill before he leaves home,
To let dem downtown coons alone
Dis mornin’, dis evenin’, so soon.
Bill left by de alley-gate, dis mornin’,
Bill left by de alley-gate, dis evenin’,
Bill left by de alley-gate, but he couldn’t escape dat thirty-eight,
Dis mornin’, dis evenin’, so soon.
Bill’s wife was a-makin’ up bread, etc.,
When she got word that Bill was dead, etc.
Oh, no, dat cain’ be so, etc.,
For Bill left home but an hour ago, etc.
To shoot my husband in de first degree, etc.
Dey brought Bill home in de hurry-up wagon, etc.,
Dey brought Bill home with his toe-nails a-draggin’, etc.
[Another Version]*
Oh, I was hungry from head to foot,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
Oh, I was hungry from head to foot,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
Oh, I was hungry from head to foot,
And I went to a place to get something to eat,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.
I bought me a doughnut and licked off the grease,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
I bought me a doughnut and licked off the grease,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
I bought me a doughnut and licked off the grease,
And gave the waiter a five-cent piece,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.
He looked at the nickel and he looked at me,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
He looked at the nickel and he looked at me,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
And he said, “ ’Tain’t good, and you can’t fool me,”
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.
“Dar’s a hole in the middle, and it goes straight through,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
Dar’s a hole in the middle, and it goes straight through,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
Dar’s a hole in the middle, and it goes straight through.”
Says I, “Dar’s a hole in the doughnut, too,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.”
I met a man a-walking on de track,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
I met a man a-walking on de track,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
I met a man a-walking on de track,
And he had a banjo, strapped on his back,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.
He stubbed his toe, and down he fell,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
He stubbed his toe, and down he fell,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
He stubbed his toe, and down he fell,
And he smashed the banjo all to hell,
Dis mornin’, dis ebenin’,
So soon.
FRANKIE AND ALBERT*
A
Frankie wuz a good woman,
Everybody knows,
She spent one hundred dollars
For to buy her man some clothes,
Oh, he wuz her man,
But he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to de corner,
Went there wid a can,
Ast de lovin’ bartender:
“Has you seen my lovin’ man?
He’s my man,
But he’s a-doin’ me wrong.”
Frankie went down to de corner,
Didn’t go dere for fun,
She had Albert’s 41—
He was her man,
But she shot him down.
Frankie went down to de whore-house,
Rang de whore-house bell,
Says, “Tell me, is my lovin’ Albert here?
Caze Frankie’s gwine to raise some hell—
Oh, he’s my man,
But he’s a-doin’ me wrong.”
When Albert saw Frankie,
For the back door he did scoot,
But Frankie pulled dat forty-fo’,
Went root-ta-toot-toot-ta-toot-toot—
En she shot him down,
Yes, she shot him down.
Well, when Frankie shot Albert,
He fell down on his knees,
Looked up at her and said,
“Oh, Frankie, please
Don’t shoot me no mo’, babe,
Don’t shoot me no mo’.
“Oh, tu’n me over, doctor,
Tu’n me over slow,
Tu’n me over on my right-hand side
Caze de bullet is a-hurtin’ me so.”
He was her man,
But he’s dead an’ gone.
Frankie follered Albert to de graveyard,
Fell down on her knees.
An’ git my heart some ease—
You wuz my man,
But you done me wrong.”
Albert raise up in his grave,
To old Frankie he said,
“You bein’ my lovin’ woman,
Kindly put some cracked ice on my head—
I wuz yo’ man,
But I done you wrong.”
Now Frankie’s layin’ on old Albert’s grave,
Tears rollin’ down her face,
Says, “I’ve loved many a nigger son of a bitch,
But there’s none can take Albert’s place—
He wuz my man,
But he done me wrong.”
En now it’s rubber-tired carriages,
An’ a rubber-tired hack,
Took old Albert to de graveyard
An’ brought his mother back—
His soul’s in hell,
His soul’s in hell.
B
Sung by Lead Belly, “King of twelve-string guitar players of the world,” Angola, Louisiana.
As everybody knows,
She did all the work around the house
And pressed her Albert’s clothes.
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Albert was a yeller man,
Coal-black curly hair.
Everybody up in St. Louis
Thought he was a millionaire—
He was my son, and the only one.
Miss Frankie went to the barroom,
Called for a bottle of beer,
Says to the bartender:
“Has Mister Albert been here?
He is my man, and he’s doin’ me wrong.”
Frankie and Albert were lovers,
Oh, my God, how they did love!
Just like sisters and brothers,
This whore and her turtle dove,
For he was her man, but she shot him down.
The bartender says to Miss Frankie:
“I cannot tell a lie;
Mister Albert was here about a minute ago
With a gal name Alkali.
He is your man, but he’s doin’ you wrong.”
Little Frankie went down Broadway
With her razor in her hand,
Says: “Stand aside, you chippie.
I’m lookin’ for my man,
He’s a gamblin’ man, won’t treat me right.”
Miss Frankie went up the stairway,
She didn’t go for fun;
Underneath the ruffles of her petticoat,
She had a young Gatlin’ gun.
He was her man an’ he was doin’ her wrong.
Miss Frankie opened the winder,
The gun she fired twice;
The second shot she fired,
She took Mister Albert’s life—
He was her man, but he was doin’ her wrong.
Well, when Frankie shot Albert,
First, he fell to his knees,
Then he looked up in her face,
Says, “Frankie, please don’t shoot me no mo’,
Please, babe, don’t shoot me no mo’.”
She shot three bullets in him,
He staggered to the door,
He gasped, “Oh, Frankie, you can’t play ’round,
’Round this hop joint any more.
I was your man, but I done you wrong.
Turn me over slow,
Turn me over easy on my left side
So my heart won’t overflow
And kill me dead, and kill me dead.”
Took po’ Albert to the graveyard,
Stuck him in the ground,
Frankie, she was singin’,
“I shot the sucker down—
He was my man, but he done me wrong.”
The people says to Frankie,
“Little Frankie, why don’t you run?
Yonder comes the Chief Police
With a smokeless 44 gun.
You killed your man, wouldn’t treat you right.”
“Well,” says Miss Frankie,
“I don’t care if I die,
Take and hang me to a telegraph pole,
Hang me good and high—
He was my man but he done me wrong.”
Little Frankie went down Broadway
As far as she could see,
And all she could hear was a two-string bow,
Playing, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—
All over the town, little Albert’s dead.
Frankie went to Albert’s mother,
Fell across her knees,
Said: “I’m sorry I killed your son,
Won’t you excuse me, please?
He was my man, but he done me wrong.”
I will forgive you not.
You sho shot Albert,
He’s the only son I got,
He was my son, and the only one.”
Frankie says to the sheriff,
“Well, what do you think it’ll be?”
The sheriff said: “It looks like a case
Of murder in the first degree;
He was your man, but you shot him down.”
It was not murder in the first degree,
It was not murder in the third,
A woman simply dropped her man
Like a hunter drops a bird.
He was her man, but she shot him down.
Frankie said to the sheriff,
“Oh, what do you think they’ll do?”
“Strap you in the ’lectric chair,
’N’ send thirty thousand volts through you.
Albert was your man, but you shot him down.”
Passin’ through the jail-house,
Went by Frankie’s cell,
Asked her how she was feelin’,
She said, “Go to Hell.”
He was her man, but she shot him down.
Once more I saw Frankie,
She was sittin’ in her chair,
Waitin’ for to go an’ meet her God,
With the sweat drippin’ out her hair.
Albert was her man, but she shot him down.
And stuck her in the ground,
Now all that’s left of Frankie is
A wooden cross and mound.
He was her man—both dead and gone
Two little pieces of crape,
Hangin’ on the door,
Show that lovin’ Albert
Ain’t lovin’ Albert no more.
Frankie shot her man, what was doin’ her wrong.
IDA RED*
I went down town one day in a lope;
Fool around till I stole a coat;
Den I come back and done my bes’,
Fool around till I got de ves’.
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
Dey carry me down to de jail-house do’,
Where I never had been befo’.
The jailer come out wid a key in his han’;
Say, “I jest got room fer one young man.”
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
Send little Ida down in town
To git somebody fer to go my boun’,
But she come back wid a very sad tale,
“Cain’t git nobody fer to go your bail.”
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
Dey had me tied with a ball and chain,
Waitin’ all ready fer de east-bound train;
And every station we pass by
Seem like I heard little Ida cry.
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
If I had listened to whut Ida said,
I’d been sleepin’ in Ida’s bed;
But I pay no mind to my Ida Red,
An’ now Ise sleepin’ in a convict’s bed.
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
I wash my face and I comb my head,
Ise a mighty fool about Ida Red;
When I git out of dis old shack,
Tell little Ida Ise comin’ back.
Oh, weep! Oh, my Ida!
Fer over dat road Ise bound to go.
BIG JIM*
Cold and chill is de winter wind,
Big Jim’s dead an’ gone.
Big Jim wuz my lovin’ man;
Gawd! de years seem long, oh, long!
Long, oh, long are de years!
He wuz good and kind to me,
Jim wuz a grinder too,
But nothin’ now won’t bring him back,
Nothin’ I can do.
Long, oh, long, are de years!
Seems like yesterday night
Jim went down to de hop house,
And that was the start of the fight.
Long are de years, yes, long!
Oh, my God, how I hate her!
An’ I know she done it, too—
Cut his head mos’ off’n his neck
An’ whut fer he never knew.
Long, oh, long, are de years!
Big Jim’s dead an’ gone now;
Listen to my song.
Some day I’ll be goin’ too,
An’ I hope it won’t be long—
Long, long, long are de years!
DE BALLIT OF DE BOLL WEEVIL*
Oh, have you heard de lates’,
De lates’ of de songs?
It’s about dem little Boll Weevils,
Dey’s picked up bofe feet an’ gone
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
De Boll Weevil is a little bug
F’um Mexico, dey say,
He come to try dis Texas soil
En thought he better stay,
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
De nigger say to de Boll Weevil
“Whut makes yo’ head so red?”*
“I’s been wanderin’ de whole worl’ ovah
Till it’s a wonder I ain’t dead,
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.”
First time I saw Mr. Boll Weevil,
He wuz on de western plain;
Next time I saw him,
He wuz ridin’ on a Memphis train,
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
De nex’ time I saw him,
He was runnin’ a spinnin’ wheel;
De nex’ time I saw him,
He was ridin’ in an automobile,
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
De fus’ time I saw de Boll Weevil
He wuz settin’ on de square,
De nex’ time I saw de Boll Weevil
Dey’s lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
Then the Farmer got angry,
Sent him up in a balloon;
“Good-by, Mr. Farmer;
I’ll see you again next June.
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.”
De Farmer took de Boll Weevil
An’ buried him in hot san’;
De Boll Weevil say to de Farmer,
“I’ll stan’ it like a man,
Fur it is my home,
It is my home.”
Den de Farmer took de Boll Weevil
An’ lef’ him on de ice;
Says de Boll Weevil to de Farmer,
“Dis is mighty cool an’ nice.
Oh, it is my home,
It is my home.”
Mr. Farmer took little Weevil
And put him in Paris Green;
“Thank you, Mr. Farmer;
It’s the best I ever seen.
It is my home,
It’s jes my home.”
Den de Farmer say to de Merchant:
“We’s in an awful fix;
De Boll Weevil’s et all de cotton up
We’s got no home,
Oh, we’s got no home.”
Den de Merchant say to de Farmer,
“Whut do you tink o’ dat?
Ef you kin kill de Boll Weevil
I’ll give you a bran-new Stetson hat,
A Stetson hat,
Oh, a Stetson hat.”
Oh, de Farmer say to de Merchant,
“I ain’t made but only one bale,
An’ befo’ I bring yo’ dat one
I’ll fight an’ go to jail,
I’ll have a home,
I’ll have a home.”
De Sharpshooter say to de Boll Weevil,
“What you doin’ in dis square?”
An’ the Boll Weevil say to de Sharpshooter,
“Ise makin’ my home in here,
Here in dis square,
Here in dis square.”
Oh, de Boll Weevil say to de Dutchman,
“Jes’ poison me ef yo’ dare,
An’ when yo’ come to make yo’ crop
I’ll punch out every square,
When de sun gits hot,
When de sun gits hot.”
De Boll Weevil say to de Farmer,
“You better lemme alone,
I’ve et up all yo’ cotton
An’ now I’ll begin on de co’n,
I’ll have a home,
I’ll have a home.”
Boll Weevil say to de Doctor,
“Better po’ out all yo’ pills,
When I git through wid de Farmer,
He cain’t pay no doctor’s bills.
He’ll have no home,
He’ll have no home.”
Boll Weevil say to de Preacher,
“You better close yo’ chu’ch do’,
When I git through wid de Farmer,
He cain’t pay de Preacher no mo’,
Won’t have no home,
Won’t have no home.”
De Merchant got half de cotton,
De Boll Weevil got de res’;
Didn’t leave de nigger’s wife
But one old cotton dress.
And it’s full of holes,
Oh, it’s full of holes.
Rubber-tired buggy,
Decorated hack,
Took dem Boll Weevils to de graveyard,
An’ ain’t goin’ bring ’em back.
Dey gone at las’,
Oh, dey gone at las’.
Ef anybody axes you
Who wuz it writ dis song,
Tell ’em ’twuz a dark-skinned nigger
Wid a pair o’ blue duckins on,
A-lookin’ for a home,
Jes a-lookin’ for a home.
BILL MARTIN AND ELLA SPEED
Lead Belly, self-acknowledged king of the twelve-string guitar, said that Bill Martin had shot po’ Ella down in the street not long before he moved to Dallas, and that her sad death was already celebrated by the street musicians (of whom he was one). According to his own story, he helped to make up some of the loosely woven stanzas that tell the tale of Martin’s jealousy. Each couplet is to be repeated twice except in the case of the four-line stanzas, which are to be sung as written. See “Alice B” in The American Songbag.
Bill Martin he was long an’ slender,
Better known by bein’ a bartender.
Bill Martin he was long an’ slender,
Better known by bein’ a bartender.
Bill Martin he was a man whut had a very small hand,
He worked ev’y night at de coffee stand.
He walked out for to borrow a gun,
Something Bill Martin had never done.
Ella Speed was downtown havin’ her lovin’ fun,
Long came Bill Martin wid his Colt 41.
De fust ball it entered in po’ Ella’s side,
De nex’ ball entered in her breas’,
De third ball it entered in her head;
Dat’s de ball dat put po’ Ella to bed.
All de young gals come a-runnin’ an’ cryin’,
All de young gals come a-runnin’ an’ a-cryin’,
“It ain’ but de one thing worry de po’ gal’s min’—
She lef’ her two lil boys behin’.”
De deed dat Bill Martin done,
Jedge sentence: “You gonna be hung.”
They taken Bill Martin to de freight depot,
An’ de train come rollin’ by,
He wave his han’ at de woman dat he love
An’ he hung down his head an’ he cry.
All you young girls better take heed,
Don’ you do like po’ Ella Speed;
Some day you will go for to have a lil fun
An’ a man will do you like Bill Martin done.
RAILROAD BILL*
That bad man of the ties, Railroad Bill, is a completely legendary character. It is interesting to note that he was killed or arrested by another Negro, after he had eluded the white officers of the law that set out after him.
Ol’ corn whisky cause of it all.
It’s dat bad Railroad Bill.
Railroad Bill mighty bad man,
Shoot dem light out o’ de brakeman’s han’.
It’s dat bad Railroad Bill.
Railroad Bill went out Wes’,
Thought he had dem cowboys bes’.
It’s dat bad Railroad Bill.
Railroad Bill, Railroad Bill,
He never work and he never will.
It’s dat bad Railroad Bill.
Two policemen dressed in blue
Come down street in two an’ two,
Wuz lookin’ fer Railroad Bill.
Ol’ McMillan had a special train,
When he got dere it was a shower of rain.
Wuz lookin’ fer Railroad Bill.
Ev’body tol’ him he better turn back;
Railroad Bill wuz goin’ down de track,
Dat bad man Railroad Bill.
Railroad Bill wuz the worst ol’ coon,
Killed McMillan by the light of de moon,
When wuz lookin’ fer Railroad Bill.
Some one went home an’ tol’ my wife
All about—well, my pas’ life.
It wuz dat bad Railroad Bill.
I went down on Number One,
Railroad Bill had jus’ begun.
Wuz dat bad Railroad Bill.
I come up on Number Two,
Railroad Bill had jus’ got through.
Dat bad Railroad Bill.
An’ jus’ as I caught dat Number Fo’,
Somebody shot at me wid a fo’ty-fo’,
Wuz dat bad Railroad Bill.
I went back on Number Five,
Goin’ bring him back, dead or alive.
Wuz lookin’ fer Railroad Bill.
I come back on Number Eight,
The folks say I wuz a minute too late.
Lookin’ fer Railroad Bill.
When I come back on Number Nine,
Folks says, “You’re jes’ in time.
Lookin’ for Railroad Bill.”
When I got my men, they amounted to ten,
An’ that’s when I run po’ Railroad Bill in.
An’ that wuz the last of po’ Railroad Bill.
* Words and air from a tongue-tied Negro convict at Parchman, Mississippi.
* Some of the verses of this ballad worksong we have taken from Negro Workaday Songs. The rest of the words and the tune were recorded in Southern prison camps.
* Tune and words from Carl Sandburg.
* Sent by William E. Bolin, Ethical Culture School, Sixty-third Street and Central Park West, New York City.
* In 1909 the A version came from Texas sources. The B version is a composite of stanzas obtained from Connecticut, North Carolina, Mississippi, Illinois, Tennessee, and Texas. A study of the three hundred variants in the collection of Robert A. Gordon will yet, perhaps, call for a doctor’s thesis. No one has ever heard precisely the same song sung by two individuals, unless they happened to be roommates.
Frankie, the heroine of this tragedy, yet lives, according to report, somewhat aloof to the curious only, in Seattle, Washington.
* From the Colorado River (Texas) bottoms.
* From R. V. Utter, Vicksburg, Mississippi, through Professor R. P. Utter, University of California.
* Words from Texas and Mississippi; tune from Texas. Text largely collected in 1909.
* The Negro must have his rhyme. He is thinking of the red-headed peckerwood.
* Text and tune are quoted from Odum and Johnson’s Negro Workaday Songs (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press).