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Coal smoke rises in the morn,
From chimneys tall and black,
The miners wake before the sun,
To go and bring some back.
The company store stands nearby,
Where credit barely scores,
Coal smoke morning starts the shift,
That leaves black dust on doors.
The old gospel choir sways and sways,
Their voices lift as one,
The amen sounds ring through the pews,
Until the hour is done.
The hymns of faith pass down through years,
From mothers to their daughters,
An old gospel choir lifts the soul,
Like spiritual waters.
The bayou winds through cypress trees,
Where alligators glide,
The fiddles play Cajun music,
That makes you want to ride.
The crawfish boil in pots so large,
The zydeco plays on,
Cajun bayou good times roll,
From dusk until the dawn.
The bells of Saint Mary's ring,
Across the valley wide,
Calling faithful to the church,
Where prayers are said inside.
The choir sings the vespers hour,
The organ fills the nave,
Bells of Saint Mary's tolling call,
Is what the faithful crave.
Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight,
And dance by the light of the moon,
The fellas there waiting all around the square,
Just to dance with someone soon.
The fiddles tune and fiddles play,
The couples swing and spin,
Buffalo gals and boys so gay,
Are gathering within.
A blue moon rising over the bay,
Reflects on waters still,
The lighthouse beam sweeps through the night,
The distant ships to fill.
The harbor sleeps beneath its glow,
Its anchor safely moored,
A blue moon rising peaceful above,
Cannot be ignored.
The towhee cries in underbrush,
Its call is sharp and clear,
The summer mornings filled with song,
Of birds we hold most dear.
The scratching at the fallen leaves,
Reveals the seeds they've stored,
A towhee crying in the heat,
Of summer being toward.
The sawmill buzzes all day long,
The sawdust fills the air,
The log carriage moves back and forth,
With timber cut with care.
The saw blade spins with teeth so sharp,
To make the boards so fine,
An old sawmill in the woods,
Turns trees to building shine.
The harvest festival comes round,
With pies and crafts display,
The scarecrow contest winner stands,
In hay bale display.
The Ferris wheel turns slow and high,
The caramel apples sweet,
A harvest festival gathering,
Of neighbors that we meet.
A gentle rain falls soft today,
On garden rows so neat,
The drought has ended finally,
The farmers' hearts beat light.
The gutters stream with water clear,
The barrels overflow,
A gentle rain on parched earth,
Is what the garden grows.
The mountain laurel blooms so pink,
On rocky slopes so high,
The hikers stop to admire the view,
Of mountains touching sky.
The state flower blooms in spring,
In thickets along the trail,
Mountain laurel wild and free,
Grows on the windy ridge steep and pale.
Sleep little calf in the hayloft warm,
Your mother in the barn below,
The moon shines through the rafters high,
Where cricket lullabies flow.
Close your eyes now little one,
The stars watch from above,
A cowboy lullaby to sleep,
Under mother's love.
Storms on the horizon draw near,
The barometer drops fast,
The fishermen hurry to shore,
Their nets gathered in haste.
The lighthouse keeper trims the wick,
The boat secured at dock,
Storms on the horizon call,
For those who know the rock.
We run through buttercup fields,
With petals in our hair,
The yellow blooms so bright and bold,
That cover meadows fair.
Mother said don't pick them all,
They need to seed and grow,
But buttercup fields bring such joy,
Of summer's golden glow.
The dust bowl days were hard and long,
The topsoil blew away,
The Okies packed their belongings,
On Route Sixty-Six they traveled every day.
The family car stuffed full of all,
They owned upon the earth,
Dust bowl days of losing farms,
Was economic curse.
New England autumn paints the hills,
In orange, red, and gold,
The apple cider fresh pressed,
Is worth more than its weight in cold.
The stone walls line the property,
The pumpkins on the vine,
New England autumn beauty bold,
Is a seasonal sign.
It's a new day dawning in my soul,
The old gospel says I'll survive,
Through all the troubles and trials,
I've learned that love keeps hope alive.
The choir rocks with hallelujahs,
The amen echoes long,
An old gospel morning brings new grace,
Where faith keeps holding on.
The Amish quilt is pieced by hand,
With patterns intricate,
Each stitch so small and hidden well,
Makes warmth for those cold nights.
The geometric designs show,
A patience learned through years,
An Amish quilt made carefully,
Will last beyond our tears.
Blue Ridge mountains catch the dawn,
Their peaks catch first the light,
The mist hangs low in valley deep,
A truly glorious sight.
The Shenandoah flows through hills,
Where history was made,
Blue Ridge morn brings beauty still,
That never seems to fade.
The fiddle played its final note,
The last dance was complete,
The fiddler laid down his bow at last,
To join the night's retreat.
The dance hall empty now stands still,
With memories inside,
A fiddle's farewell to the stage,
Where musicians once tried.