North Georgia Rounder

Over yonder down at Cane Creek Holler
All the shine flood them that swallow
Lord the Oosta, Oostanaula, lazy on the shoals
Run these rivers singing these sins
Up the valley I work for tips

Hiss at them haints, boy
Teach them that ain't, now
Ain't no master of this man
Tell him what or what he can't, boys
Ain't no master of this man

Blackwater slags through the country
I smoked my pipe full of cured tobaccy
Tide she turns like gossip on the tongue
Need me a good gal, sweet potato
Keeps my kitchen clean and fills my table

Hiss at them haints, boy
Teach them that ain't, now
Ain't no master of this man
Tell him what or what he can't, boys
Ain't no master of this man

I'm a North Georgia Rounder playing these foothill stomps
With my ragtime Rosie at my elbow chewing on her French cigarettes
We came to drink, we came to dance, we came to sing our troubles
away
I'm a North Georgia Rounder playing these foothill stomps

Hiss at them haints, boy
Teach them that ain't, now
Ain't no master of this man
Tell him what or what he can't, boys
Ain't no master of this man