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Stephen Vincent Benet - The Mountain Whippoorwill
Work rating: Medium

Or, How Hill-Billy Jim Won The Great Fiddler’s Prize
 (A Georgia Romance)

Up in the mountains, it`s lonesome all the time,
(Sof win` slewin` thu` the sweet-potato vine).

Up in the mountains, it`s lonesome for a child,
(Whippoorwills a-callin` when the sap runs wild).

Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,
Everything as lazy as an old houn` dog.

Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,
Don`t want nuthin` an` never got it yet.

Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,
Raised runnin` ragged thu` the cockleburrs and corn.

Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.
Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.

Never had a mammy to teach me pretty-please.
Think she was a whippoorwill, a-skitin` thu` the trees.

Never had a brother ner a whole pair of pants,
But when I start to fiddle, why, yuh got to start to dance!

Listen to my fiddle Kingdom Come—Kingdom Come!
Hear the frogs a-chunkin’ "Jug o’ rum, Jug o` rum!"
Hear that mountain-whippoorwill be lonesome in the air.
An’ I’ll tell yuh how I traveled to the Essex County Fair.

Essex County has a mighty pretty fair,
All the smarty fiddlers from the South come there.

Elbows flyin` as they rosin up the bow
For the First Prize Contest in the Georgia Fiddlers` Show.
 
Old Dan Wheeling, with his whiskers in his ears,
King-pin fiddler for nearly twenty years.

Big Tom Sargent, with his blue wall-eye,
An` Little Jimmy Weezer that can make a fiddle cry.

All sittin’ roun’, spittin’ high an’ struttin’? proud,
(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh better bug yore eyes!)
Tun-a-tun-a-tunin’ while the jedges told the crowd
Them that got the mostest claps`d win the bestest prize.

Everybody waitin’for the first tweedle-dee,
When in comes a-stumblin`—hill-billy me!

Bowed right pretty to the jedges an` the rest,
Took a silver dollar from a hole inside my vest,

Plunked it on the table an` said, "There`s my callin` card!
An` anyone that licks me well, he`s got to fiddle hard!"

Old Dan Wheeling, he was laughin` fit to holler,
Little Jimmy Weezer said, ``There`s one dead dollar!"

Big Tom Sargent had a yaller-toothy grin,
But I tucked my little whippoorwill spang underneath my chin,
An` petted it an` tuned it till the jedges said, "Begin!"

Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;
He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.

He could fiddle down a possum from a mile-high tree.
He could fiddle up a whale from the bottom of the sea.

Yuh could hear hands spankin` till they spanked each other raw,
When he finished variations on "Turkey in the Straw."

Little Jimmy Weezer was the next to play;
He could fiddle all night, he could fiddle all day.

He could fiddle chills, he could fiddle fever,
He could make a fiddle rustle like a lowland river.
 
He could make a fiddle croon like a lovin` woman.
An’ they clapped like thunder when he`d finished strummin`.

Then came the ruck of the bob-tailed fiddlers,
The let`s go-easies, the fair-to-middlers.

They got their claps an` they lost their bicker,
An` settled back for some more corn-licker.

An` the crowd was tired of their no-count squealing,
When out in the center steps Old Dan Wheeling.

He fiddled high and he fiddled low,
(Listen, little whippoorwill; yuh got to spread yore wings!)
He fiddled with a cherrywood bow.
(Old Dan Wheelings got bee-honey in his strings.)

He fiddled the wind by the lonesome moon,
He fiddled a most almighty tune.

He started fiddling like a ghost,
He ended fiddling like a host.

He fiddled north an` he fiddled south,
He fiddled the heart right out of yore mouth.

He fiddled here an` he fiddled there.
He fiddled salvation everywhere.

When he was finished, the crowd cut loose,
(Whippoorwill, they`s rain on yore breast.)
An’ I sat there wondering "What`s the use?"
(Whippoorwill, fly home to yore nest.)

But I stood up pert an` I took my bow,
An` my fiddle went to my shoulder, so.

An` they wasn`t no crowd to get me fazed
But I was alone where I was raised.

Up in the mountains, so still it makes yuh skeered.
Where God lies sleepin` in his big white beard.
 
An" I heard the sound of the squirrel in the pine,
An` I heard the earth a-breathin` thu` the long night-time.

They`ve fiddled the rose, an` they`ve fiddled the thorn,
But they haven`t fiddled the mountain-corn.

They`ve fiddled sinful an` fiddled moral,
But they haven`t fiddled the breshwood-laurel.

They`ve fiddled loud, an` they`ve fiddled still,
But they haven`t fiddled the whippoorwill.

I started off with a dump-diddle-dump,
(Oh, hell’s broke loose in Georgia!)
Skunk-cabbage growin` by the bee-gum stump,
(Whippoorwill, yo`re singin’ now!)

Oh, Georgia booze is mighty fine booze,
The best yuh ever poured yuh,
But it eats the soles right offen yore shoes,
For Hell`s broke loose in Georgia.

My mother was a whippoorwill pert,
My father, he was lazy,
But I`m Hell broke loose in a new store shirt
To fiddle all Georgia crazy.

Swing yore partners up an` down the middle!
Sashay now—oh, listen to that fiddle!
Flapjacks flippin` on a red-hot griddle,
An` hell broke loose,
Hell broke loose,
Fire on the mountains snakes in the grass.
Satan`s here a-bilin`—oh, Lordy, let him pass!
Go down Moses, set my people free,
Pop goes the weasel thu` the old Red Sea!
Jonah sittin` on a hickory-bough,
Up jumps a whale—an` where`s yore prophet now?
Rabbit in the pea-patch, possum in the pot,
Try an` stop my fiddle, now my fiddle`s gettin` hot!
Whippoorwill, singin` thu` the mountain hush,
Whippoorwill, shoutin` from the burnin` bush,
Whippoorwill, cryin` in the stable-door,
Sing to-night as yuh never sang before!
Hell`s broke loose like a stompin` mountain-shoat,
Sing till yuh bust the gold in yore throat!
Hell`s broke loose for forty miles aroun`
Bound to stop yore music if yuh don`t sing it down.
Sing on the mountains, little whippoorwill,
Sing to the valleys, an` slap `em with a hill,
For I`m struttin` high as an eagle`s quill,
An` Hell`s broke loose,
Hell`s broke loose,
Hell`s broke loose in Georgia!

They wasn`t a sound when I stopped bowin`,
(Whippoorwill, yuh can sing no more.)
But, somewhere or other, the dawn was growing
(Oh, mountain whippoorwill!)

An` I thought, "I`ve fiddled all night an` lost.
Yo`re a good hill-billy, but yuh`ve been bossed.

So I went to congratulate old man Dan,
—But he put his fiddle into my han`—
An` then the noise of the crowd began.
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