| lyric | Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
hang down your head and cry,
hangdown your head, Tom Dooley,
poor boy, yo’re bound to die.
Met her on the mountain,
I sowre she’d be my wife,
but the gal refused me,
so I stabbed her with my knife.
This time came tomorrow,
reckon where I’ll be,
in some lonesome valley,
hangin’ a white oak tree. |