When the last rose of summer pricks my finger1
And the hot sun chills me to the bone2
When I can’t hear the song for the singer
And I can’t tell my pillow from a stone3
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And sing me a song of my own
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And sing me a song of my own
When the last bolt of sunshine hits the mountain
And the stars start to splatter in the sky
When the moon splits the southwest horizon
With the scream of an eagle on the fly
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And listen to the ripples as they moan4
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And sing me a song of my own
Black muddy river
Roll on forever
I don’t care how deep or wide
If you got another side
Roll muddy river5
Roll muddy river
Black muddy river roll
When it seems like the night will last forever
And there’s nothing left to do but count the years
When the strings of my heart start to sever
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears6
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And dream me a dream of my own
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
And sing me a song of my own7
And sing me a song of my own
Words by Robert Hunter
Music by Jerry Garcia
A reference to the 1813 song by the Irish poet Thomas Moore (1779–1852), “ ’Tis the Last Rose of Summer.”:
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
For roses generally, see note under “That’s It for the Other One.”
Compare the line in the 1848 song by Stephen Foster (1826–64) “Oh, Susanna”: “The sun so hot I froze to def.” This was the
first song for which Foster received any cash payment. “Imagine my delight,” he wrote, “in receiving one hundred dollars in cash! The two fifty-dollar bills I received for it had the effect of starting me on my present vocation as a songwriter.” (Ewen)
Compare the story of Jacob in Genesis 28:
Jacob left Beersheba and set out for Haran. When he reached a certain place, he stopped for the night because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones there, he put it under his head and lay down to sleep.
Robert Hunter cannot use the word ripple without invoking his own song of that title.
A song called “Roll Muddy River” was a hit for the Osborne Brothers in the late 1960s and starts “Roll muddy river, roll on.”
Compare Shakespeare’s Richard III, Act 1, Scene 8:
First Murderer: Tut, tut, my lord! We will not stand to prate;
Talkers are no good doers. Be assured:
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.
Gloucester: Your eyes drop millstones when fools’ eyes fall tears.
I like you, lads: about your business straight. Go, go, dispatch.
Compare the lines containing the phrase “songs of our own” or “songs of its own” from “Eyes of the World.”
Studio recording: In the Dark (July 6, 1987).
First performance: December 15, 1986, at the Oakland Coliseum Arena in Oakland, California. It remained in the repertoire thereafter.
Hunter, in an interview with Steve Silberman, made these comments:
Silberman: Both “Standing on the Moon” and “Black Muddy River” came into the repertoire after Garcia’s coma, and both seem to be uncannily appropriate for what he had been through. Were you conscious of that at all when you were writing those tunes?
Hunter: Not specifically, but Jerry and I have been hanging out since we were eighteen and nineteen respectively, and I know him as well as I know any other human being. We were folksingers together, and I know what kind of song he loves. So when I give him something, I’ll give him something that I have a high degree of suspicion that he will love—and sometimes I’m right. “Standing on the Moon” was one of those neat, sweet, quick things, like “It Must Have Been the Roses,” where the whole picture just came to me, and I grabbed a piece of paper and got it down. No changes, no nothin’. Out of the head of Zeus, full-born and clad in armor.
Silberman: There’s a great poem by William Carlos Williams that I thought of when I heard “Black Muddy River”—it’s the first poem in his selected poems—called “The Wanderer.” He talks about being anointed as a young man by the Passaic River, as a kind of initiation, or permission, to be a poet. Did you ever read that poem? And it’s not the clean, pristine Passaic, it’s full of muck and mire and . . .
Hunter: The “filthy Passaic.”
Silberman: Exactly. It seems as if you guys have walked along the banks of similar rivers.
Hunter: The black muddy river is a dream that I’ve had maybe three or four times over my life, and it is one of the most chilling experiences that I’ve had. It’s enough to turn you religious. I’ve burrowed under this incredible mansion, gone down into the cellars, and I find myself down at this black, lusterless, slow-flowing Stygian river. There are marble columns around, and cobwebs. It’s vast and it’s hopeless. It’s death, it’s death, with the absence of the soul. It’s my horror vision, and when I come out of that dream I do anything I can to counter it.
Silberman: And yet in “Black Muddy River,” you’re not saying flee the banks of this dark place. You’re saying walk along the banks, and sing a song of your own making.
Hunter: Right. And what’s on the other side of it is . . . whatever it is. It’s a bit of whistling in the dark. I’ll face whatever it is, because I wouldn’t have any choice, would I? So you might as well go for it. 87