There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.
I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field.
At last chance saloon I am as welcome as the Violets in March; there is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those who love honest music.
Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.
But I fear that I am a failure.
Last night a woman called me a troubadour.
What is a troubadour?
I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else’s civilization.
learn moreWho is that a-walking in the corn?
I have looked to East and looked to West
But nowhere could I find him who walks
Master’s cornfield in the morning.
Who is that a-walking in the corn?
Is it Joshua, the son of Nun?-
Or King David come to fight the giant
Near the cornfield in the morning?
Who is that a-walking in the corn?
I have looked to East and looked to West
But nowhere could I find him who walks
Master’s cornfield in the morning…..
