I courted her at the meeting house On a Saturday in May; She had her mama's old yellow dress And the moon to light her way. We sat a-wooing on the rail Till the stars went pale and gray; She said, "The crick's got a deep voice, boy, And it calls my name each day." O black water, black water, cold as the clay, The mountain keeps what it takes away. She went down to the crossing place At the falling of the day; The cows came up. The girl came not. The crick went on its way. O black water, black water, cold as the clay, The mountain keeps what it takes away. They dragged the pool with a hickory pole. They brought up the dress. Not the girl. I'm an old man at the crossing place, The crick is deep and cold; She's in the root, she's in the reed, She's young, and I am old. O black water, black water, cold as the clay, The mountain keeps what it takes away.
