Hang your head, Tom Dooley
Hang your head and cry,
You killed poor Laurie Foster
You know you're bound to die
Left her by the roadside,
You begged to be excused,
You left her by the roadside,
And you hid her clothes and shoes
Took her on the hillside
For to make her your wife
You took her on the hillside
And there you took her life
You dug the grave four feet long
You dug it three feet deep
You rolled the cold clay over her
And tromped it with your feet.
Trouble, oh, it's trouble, rolling through my breath
As long as I'm livin', boys, ain't gonna let me rest
I know they're gonna hang me, tomorrow I'll be dead
I never even harmed a hair on poor little Laurie's head
In this world one more where you reckon I'd be
If it wasn't for Sheriff Grayson, I'd be in Tennessee
You can take down my old violin, play it all you please
For at this time tomorrow, boy, it'll be no use to me
At this time tomorrow, where you reckon I'll be?
Way down yonder in the hollow, hanging from the wide oak tree