I’m a feller from a holler,

And I guess that’s all I’ve ever been,

My folks have lived up in the mountains,

Since a way back when.

If you follow the stories,

And all our family tales,

They trace back to the mountains,

Of old Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

Even my English Ancestors,

Farmed the margins of the isle,

They were used to thin steep soil,

And knew how to face life’s trials.

I imagine when they immigrated,

And saw Virginia’s shores,

And heard of the far off mountains,

They knew what was in store.

They weren’t made for the tide water,

And the gentry left them cold,

They had known enough of lords and ladies,

In their island home of old.

They loaded up their muskets,

And there plunder and packs,

And what they couldn’t heap upon a horse,

They carried on their backs.

They followed after Boone,

On his trace up through the gap,

And they settled in a holler,

There to farm and hunt and trap.

Now, of course they made some changes,

In this new land they settled now,

Corn was no longer wheat and barley,

And “plough” became a “plow”.

But the water that bubbled,

From over rocks and rills,

Still made the “usquebaugh”

In the same old copper stills.

They still sang the same old ballads,

The same old stories here were told,

By the fire in a cabin,

On winter nights so long and cold.

The land was big and wild,

But of course, so were they,

They were people used to hardships,

And they were here to stay.

I reckon it seems old fashioned,

That I ain’t changed all that much,

On the land I call a farm,

I still keep a mule, a cow and such.

Independence starts in the furrow,

And I think it follows the plow,

It’s always been that way,

From way back then up til now.

And as we learned from grandpap’s grandpap,

When the world becomes too much,

Get yourself up in a holler,

And find some earth to touch.