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Oh, dark is the night, And the wild storm was dreadful And . . . cold drifting sleet. And the white pavement groans 'Neath the dull heavy shuffle Of a poor drunkard's slow-moving feet. Chorus: Oh, there's wine in the cup, And its bold . . . bitter (?) And it foams like a crest on the wave. Where the man on its tide Floats along like a bubble O'er its foam to a wine-bibber's grave. Dark is the night, And the poor dying mother Sorely grieves as long the moment drags. And the poor helpless form Of her child she does cover With her poor scanty clothes made of rags. (Chorus) |
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All Songs Recorded by John Quincy Wolf, Jr., unless otherwise noted The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas Back to the Song Index Back to the Wolf Collection Homepage ©Copyright 2002 Lyon College |