| When she had twenty years she turned to her mother
|
| Saying mother, I know that you’ll grieve
|
| But I’ve given my soul to St. John the gambler
|
| Tomorrow comes time to leave
|
| For the hills cannot hold back my sorrow forever
|
| And dead men lie deep 'round the door
|
| The only salvation that’s mine for the asking
|
| So mother, think on me no more
|
| An' winter held high 'round the mountains breast
|
| And the cold of a thousand snows
|
| Lay heaped upon the forests leaf
|
| But she dressed in calico
|
| For a gambler likes his women fancy
|
| Fancy she would be
|
| And the fire of her longing would keep 'way the cold
|
| And her dress was a sight to see
|
| But the road was long beneath the feet
|
| She followed her frozen breath
|
| In search of a certain St. John the gambler
|
| Stumbling to her death
|
| She heard his laughter right down from the mountains
|
| And danced with her mothers tears
|
| To a funeral drawn a calico
|
| 'Neath the cross of twenty years
|
| To a funeral drawn a calico
|
| 'Neath the cross of twenty years |