Sung by: Ollie Gilbert
Recorded in Mountain View, AR by George Fisher
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I wish longer I had tarried,
For my wife, she does declare
That the britches she will wear.
Son, oh son, go home and love her.
Let me hear no more of your false discovery.
Every word she don’t rebel,
Take a stick and beat her well.
He went home with a great . . .
At the door he rapped like thunder.
“Who’s here?” the . . . cried.
“’Tis my husband; you must hide.”
In the yard . . . I ventured,
Then the house a hole I entered
Searched both halls, up and down,
There wasn’t a soul to be found.
Up the chimney he was . . .
Up the chimney he was gazing.
There he spied the wretched soul,
Treed up on the trammel pole.
“Ha, ha, ha, I’m glad I found you.
Neither hang, or I’ll drownd you.
But I'll stifle you with smoke,"
All in thought but never spoke.
He piled on a few more . . .
His wife cried out, “My dearest dear,
If I be your lawful wife,
Take him down and spare his life.”
Down the chimney roughly took him,
Like a raccoon dog, he shook him,
There was a pot . . .
. . .
He went home; his wife, she met him,
She up with a club and down she fetched him,
Knocked his black eyes into red,
Now, poor Billy, he is dead.