Tom Dooley

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
Hang down your head and cry,
Killed poor Laura Foster,
You know you ’re bound to die.

You took her on the hillside,
As God almighty knows,
You took her on the hillside,
And there you hid her cloths.

You took her by the roadside,
Where you begged to be excused,
You took her by the roadside,
Where there you hid her shoes.

You took her on the hillside,
To make her your wife,
You took her on the hillside,
Where there you took her life.

Take down my old violin
And play it as you please,
At this time tomorrow,
It ’ll be no use to me.

I dug a grave four feet long
And dug it three feet deep
And throwed the cold clay o ’er
And tramped it with my feet.

This world and one more,
Then where do you reckon I ’d be,
If it hadn ’t been for Grayson,
I ’d been in Tennessee.