Part 40

They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio's shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more.

For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day.

Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie's name.

She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide. The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side.

Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold.

--Luke Burchett

MOUNTAIN PREACHER

When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year.

And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek.

I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good.

And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God's own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above.

Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy's people, Though your earthly form is molding 'neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God.

--D. Preston

CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS

This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.

Have you been to church in the mountains? 'Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow.

Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns.

So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord.

Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God.

Through years--it's been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade.

There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand.

They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God's love, Telling of home that's waiting In the mansions up above.

Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun.

--Jessie Stewart

MOUNTAIN DOCTOR

This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin' Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as classics."

A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago. The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay.

The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near.