Pretty Polly

This is a very old song. Once it became lost in the Appalachians it was stripped of the nuances of its English ancestry and became a misogynistic tale of cold blooded murder. This is why, despite the fact that I am proud of the guitar work, I pretty much have quit playing it in concert. There are dozens of renditions of it here on the web where it is usually played as a banjo piece, and if you are interested, seek out Frank Hamilton's rendition. It is absolutely spot on.

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Oh I used to be a rambler
And I stayed around in town
And I couted Pretty Polly
And she has never more been found

Oh, where is Pretty Polly
Yonder she stands
With a ring on each finger
On her lilly white hand

Pretty Polly Pretty Poll
Wont \'t you go along with me
I have some pleasures
I want you to see

Well, he led her over mountains
And valleys so deep
At length Prety Polly
Began for to weep

Oh, Willy, Oh Willy
I'm afraid of your ways
Your mind is to ramble
And lead me to stray

Pretty Poll, Pretty Polly
You're guessin' 'bout right
I dug on your grave
the best part of  last night

They went up a little bit farther
And what did they spy
But a fresh duggen grave
And a spade lying by

He stabbed her in the heart
Til her warm blood did flow
And into the grave
Pretty Polly did go

Oh Willy Oh Willy
There's Hell for to pay
For killin' Pretty Polly
And runnin' away