On Top of Old Smokey, a song. A well-known ballad of the United States. It was made popular in a recording done by The Weavers in 1951. Old Smokey is most probably a mountain high up in the Ozarks or the central Appalachians, as the tune bears marks of the Scottish and Irish settlers in that region. The lyrics:
On top of Old Smokey
All covered with snow,
I lost my true lover
For courting too slow.
Now, courting is a pleasure
And parting is grief,
And a false-hearted lover
Is worse than a thief.
A thief will just rob you
And take what you have,
But a false-hearted lover
Will lead you to the grave.
And the grave will decay you
And turn you to dust;
Not one girl in a hundred
A poor boy can trust.
They'll hug you and kiss you
And tell you more lies
Than the crossties on the railroad
Or stars in the sky.
So, come all you young maidens
And listen to me,
Never place your affection
On a green willow tree.
For the leaves they will wither,
And the roots they will die,
You'll all be forsaken
And never know why.
On top of Old Smokey
All covered with snow,
I lost my true lover
For courting too slow.
This oft-parodied song has some violent lyrics, and also some more risque ones, however, my personal favourite, as my old mother taught me:
On top of spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball,
When somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table,
And on to the floor,
And then my poor meatball,
Rolled out of the door.
It rolled in the garden,
And under a bush,
And then my poor meatball,
Was nothing but mush.
The mush was as tasty
As tasty could be,
And then the next summer,
It grew into a tree.
The tree was all covered,
All covered with moss,
And on it grew meatballs,
And tomato sauce.
So if you eat spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
Hold on to your meatball,
Whenever you sneeze.
Yay! My first writeup!