She ran to a nearby pasture And catching a horse by the mane, She mounted and rode like a soldier, With neither saddle nor rein.

Her golden hair streamed behind her, Her eyes were wild and bright, As she urged her swift steed forward And galloped away in the night.

Straight to the Hatfields' stronghold, She rode so fearless and brave, To tell them that Jonse was in danger And beg them his life to save.

And the Hatfields rode in a body.

They saved young Jonse's life; But never, they said, a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife.

But the feud is long forgotten And time has healed the sting, As little Bud and Melissy This song of their kinsmen sing.

No longer it is forbidden That a fair-haired young McCoy Shall love her dark-eyed neighbor Or marry a Hatfield boy.

And the people still remember, Though she never became his bride, The love of these young people And Rosanna's midnight ride.

--Coby Preston

LEGEND

THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST

Through the southern mountains the Robin is often called the "Christ Bird" because of this legend. It is also called "Love Bird."

The Savior hung upon the cross, His body racked with mortal pain; The blood flowed from His precious wounds And sweat dropped from His brow like rain.

A crown of thorns was on His head, The bitter cup He meekly sips; His life is ebbing fast away, A prayer upon His blessed lips.

No mercy found He anywhere, He said, "My Father knoweth best."

A little bird came fluttering down And hovered near his bleeding breast.

It fanned His brow with gentle wings, Into the cup it dipped its beak; And gazed in pity while He hung And bore His pain so calm and meek.

At last the bird it flew away And sought the shelter of its nest; Its feathers dyed with crimson stain, The Savior's blood upon its breast.

The lowly robin, so 'tis said, That comes to us in early spring, Is that which hovered near the cross And wears for aye that crimson stain.

--Martha Creech

JENNIE WYLIE

Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was a native of Ireland.

They lived on Walker's Creek in what is now Tazewell County, Virginia.

She was captured by the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimes called Adam Pre Vard Wiley.

Among the hills of old Kentucky, When homes were scarce and settlers few, There lived a man named Thomas Wylie, His wife and little children two.

They left their home in old Virginia, This youthful pair so brave and strong.

And built a cabin in the valley Where fair Big Sandy flows along.

Poor Thomas left his home one morning, He kissed his wife and children dear; He little knew that prowling Indians Around his home were lurking near.

They waited in the silent woodland Till came the early shades of night; Poor Jennie and her young brother Were seated by the fireside bright.

They peeped inside the little cabin And saw the children sleeping there.

These helpless ones were unprotected And Jennie looked so white and fair.

They came with tomahawks uplifted And gave the war whoop fierce and wild; Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby; They killed her brother--her oldest child.

They took poor Jennie through the forest And while they laughed in fiendish glee, A redskin took the baby from her And dashed out its brains against a tree.

They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio's shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more.

For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day.

Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie's name.

She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide.

The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side.

Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold.

--Luke Burchett

MOUNTAIN PREACHER

When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year.

And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek.

I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good.

And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God's own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above.

Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy's people, Though your earthly form is molding 'neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God.

--D. Preston

CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS

This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.

Have you been to church in the mountains?

'Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow.

Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns.