Of Land and River

APPALACHIA

Clothed in her many hues of green,

Far Appalachia rises high

And takes a robe of different hue

To match the seasons passing by.

Her summits crowned by nature’s hand,

With grass-grown balds for all to see,

Her towering rocks and naked cliffs

Hid by some overhanging tree.

In early spring the Maple dons

Her bright red mantle overnight;

The Beech is clad in dainty tan,

The Sarvis in a robe of white.

The Red Bud in profusion blooms

And rules the hills a few short days,

And Dogwoods with their snowy white

Are mingled with its purple blaze.

High on the frowning mountain side

Azaleas bloom like tongues of flame,

The Laurel flaunts her waxy pink,

And Rhododendrons prove their fame.

Then comes the sturdy Chestnut tree

With plumes like waving yellow hair,

And Wild Grapes blossom at their will

To scent the glorious mountain air.

But when the frost of autumn falls,

Like many other fickle maids,

She lays aside her summer robes

And dons her gay autumnal shades.

Oh, Appalachia, loved by all!

Long may you reign, aloof, supreme,

In royal robes of nature’s hues,

A monarch proud—a mountain Queen.

—Martha Creech

BIG SANDY RIVER

Big Sandy, child of noble birth,

Majestically you roll along,

True daughter of the Cumberlands,

With heritage of wealth and song.

Free as the hills from whence you came,

In folklore and tradition bound,

You seek the valleys deep and wide,

With frowning forests girded round.

Descendants of a stalwart breed

And fed by nature’s lavish hand,

You carry on your bosom broad

The riches of a virgin land.

When ringing ax of pioneers

The silence of the forests broke,

Upon your rising crest you bore

The poplar and the mighty oak.

The push boat launched by brawny arms

And filled with treasure from the earth

Has drifted on your current strong

From out the hills that gave you birth.

And steamboats loaded to the hold

You swept upon your swelling tide,

’Til fruits of sturdy, mountain toil

Were scattered out both far and wide.

The Dew Drop plowed your mighty waves.

From Catlettsburg to old Pike Town,

To bring her loads of manmade gifts

And carry homespun products down.

And Market Boy, that far-famed craft,

Churned through the foam, her holds to fill,

And proudly reared her antlered head

A trophy rare of mountain skill.

—D. Preston

OLD TIME WATERFRONT

Come all you old-time rivermen

And go along with me,

Let’s sing a song and give a cheer

For the days that used to be.

Let’s wander down to Catlettsburg

And look upon the tide.

We’ll mourn the changes time has made

There by the river side.

Gone is the old-time waterfront

That rang with joy and mirth,

And known throughout a dozen states

As “the wettest spot on earth.”

And Damron’s famed Black Diamond,

The logger’s paradise,

Where whiskey flowed like water

And timbermen swapped lies.

Here Big Wayne ruled in splendor;

His right, none would deny.

And Little Wayne was always there

To serve the rock and rye.

And Big Wayne never failed a friend,

Or stopped to chat or lie,

And no one entering his doors

Was known to leave there dry.

And many a time some timberman

Would land himself in jail,

But Big Wayne always lent a hand,

And went the wretch’s bail.

Some of the buildings still are there,

Along the old-time ways.

Silent and dark their windows stare

Gray ghosts of bygone days.

No sound of merriment or song,

No dancing footsteps fall;

The days of fifty years ago,

Are gone beyond recall.

So to Big Wayne and Little Wayne,

Big Sandy’s pride and boast,

And to the old-time waterfront,

Let’s drink a farewell toast.

While to the old-time timbermen,

This song we’ll dedicate,

Who fought their battles with their fists,

And took their whiskey straight.

—Coby Preston

WEST VIRGINIA

There is singing in the mountain where the sturdy hill folk meet,

There is singing in the valleys where the days are warm and sweet,

There is singing in the cities where the crowds of workers throng,

Wherever we meet, no day is complete, for West Virginians without a song.

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song,

West Virginia, hear the singing of the crystal mountain streams,

Songs of joy and songs of power to fulfill man’s mightiest dreams,

West Virginia, hear the singing of thy shadowed forest trees,

Holding the winds, holding the floods, so that thy sons may be at ease.

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song.

—Esther Eugenia Davis

SKYLINE DRIVE

The Skyline Drive is not a road

To bring you near the skies

Where you can sit and gather clouds

That flit before your eyes,

Or jump upon a golden fleece

And sail to paradise—

But it is a super-mountain road

Where you can feast your eyes

Upon the beauties of the world

The Lord God gave to man

For his enjoyment and his use;

Improve it if you can.

The builders of this Skyline Drive

Have filed no patent right

That they improved upon God’s plan,

Nor have more power and might;

But they have seen His handiwork,

This panoramic view,

Have paved this road to ease the load

Of all the world and you.

This is akin to hallowed ground,

A sacred beauty shrine;

Its fame has traveled all around;

It now is yours and mine.

There’s little points of vantage—views,

Where you can see afar—

Compare the beauty with that land

That stands with “Gates Ajar.”

The people who have given much

To save this precious shrine

Must surely all be friends of God

And friends of yours and mine.

—George A. Barker