Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 193: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Old Songs That Men Have Sung Devoted to outdoor songs, preferably hitherto unprinted—songs of the sea, the lumber-camps, Great Lakes, the West, old canal days, the negro, mountains, the pioneers, etc. Send in what you have or find, so that all may share in them. Although conducted primarily for the collection and preservation of old songs, the editor will give information about modern ones when he can do so and IF all requests are accompanied with self- Write to Mr. Gordon direct, NOT to Conducted by R. W. GORDON, 1262 Euclid Ave., Berkeley, Calif. _ addressed envelop and reply postage (NOT attached). the magazine. "THE most interesting feature of the work of this department, at least so far as the editor is con- cerned, is the gradual bringing together of scattered fragments until at last they become whole songs. A bare hint—perhaps only a single ine—from one comrade is often sufficient to put the rest of us on the track, and in this way much valuable material comes in and is added to our collection. Here are fragments—who can add to them? Ellen Smith (Sent in by Jackson Taylor, Jr.) Come all ye good people my story to hear, What happened to me in the June of last year, Of poor Ellen Smith, and how she was found Shot through the heart lying cold on the ground. They took their Winchesters and hunted me down, But I was away in the Monterey town. I came back to Winton, my trial to stand, To live or to die as the law may demand. McArthur may hang me, my fate I don’t know; But I’m clear of the charge that is laid at my door. I never intended to make her my wife, But I loved her too dearly to take her sweet life. My leve lies a-sleeping in yonder graveyard; . I look through the bars, and God knows it is hard. I know they will hang me, that is if they can, But God knows they will hang an innocent man. Sourwood Mountain (Sent in by Jackson Taylor, Jr.) Chickens crowin’ on Sourwood Mountain, Hey-o dee-um daddy-deedle-daddy-dee, Git yo’ gun an’ let’s go huntin’, Hi-dum-a-diddle a-la-day. I got a gal at the head o’ the holler, Hey-o dee-um daddy-deedle-daddy-dee, She won’t come an’ I won’t foller, Hi-dum-a-diddle a-la-day. Big dog bark an’ the little one’ll bite you, Hey-o dee-um daddy-deedle-daddy-dee, Big gal court an’ the little one’ll marry you Hi-dum-a-diddle a-la-day. Geese in the pond and ducks in the ocean, Hey-o dee-um daddy-deedle-daddy-dee, Devil’s in the women when they take a notion, Hi-dum-a-diddle a-la-day. This latter song is practically endless, since nearly any couplet may be worked into a verse. I’d be glad to get as many stanzas as possible, and particu- larly glad if you would tell me the approximate date and the place where they were sung. ROM a good Tennesseean, Ned Anderson, I ob- tained the following bits of one of the most inter- esting songs that has come in for many a day. If you can help me to complete it, I’ll see that the whole text is printed in an early issue. Nigger Lost John (Text of Ned Anderson) Nigger Lost John a-goin’ down the railroad track A-waitin’ for a freight train to come back. Along come a through freight a-makin’ no stop— You oughter seen Lost John goin’ for the top. _ Well a go on, a Lost John, I’m long gone! They caught old Lost John an’ put him in the pen, The son of a gun’s out an’ gone again. Nigger Lost John goin’ to Bowlin’ Green A-skippin’ an’ a-flyin’, not a shoe on his feet, A-bummin’ everybody for a bite to eat. Well a go on, a Lost John, I’m long gone! "THE next seems to be a genuine war-song of 1812. I first heard of it through the singing of Henry Milner Rideout, who, unfortunately, could recollect only a portion of one verse. This he later used in a story published in Sea Stories, where some of you may have seen it. Then C. L. Goodspeed sent in from Chicago the following longer but still incom- plete version. Does any one know the rest? (Sent in by C. L. Goods peed) Oh, now the ttime has come, my boys, To cross the Yankee line, ; Remember they were rebels once And conquered John Burgoyne. We'll pursue those haughty democrats And pull their dwellings down, And their state shall be inhabited By subjects of the Crown! We are the noble lads of Canada! Come to arms, boys, come! Old Seventy-six is wide awake, Upon crutches they do lean; With rifles leveled on us Through spec’s they take good aim. Behind the hedges and the ditches, And every tree and stump, AV can’see the. vo: bats Foes And those cursed Yankees jump! We are the noble lads of Canada! Run for life, boys, run! IQI comicloooks =