Folksinger © Andrew Calhoun

I’m a folksinger though and through,
A folksinger with a job to do;
And since I’m on the job too long,
I’ll sing to you a song of song. 
Such wild tales the women sang,
While wool spun fine and buckets rang;
Though men don’t heed, though love grows cold,
They spun the sorrows into gold. 

Those captured souls oppressed in place
Escaped into the Lord’s embrace;
In midnight light they sang in sway
The troubles of the world away. 
Sang Mrs. Tubman, “Git on board,
We’re rolling out to Canaan’s shore;
Come children if you would be free
But leave their fields and follow me.” 

Paul joined the throng that jammed the pier,
Scanned lowland hills and shed a tear,
With a cradle song to quell the fear,
With steadied heart he headed here.
My mother sang The Riddle Song,
And if your horse and cart fall down;
And with “Swing low, sweet chariot now”
We sang her from her mortal round. 

“Hello in there,” sang young John Prine;
“Hello in there,” sang old John Prine;
The best laid schemes will drive you blind,
But never leave the dream behind;
A false true love will wax and wane,
A song of love intact remain;
So sing it till the fountain flows
And from the briar springs the rose.