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The Applepicker's Song (The Apple Picker's Reel)

de Bill Staines

Gents to the middle, let the young girl fiddle,
And you ain't got nothin' to lose
Allemande right, she could play all night
She could fiddle off the bottom of your shoes.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.
Promenade down to the lonesome sound
Of the whippoorwill in the night,
Sashay back, look at ol' man jack,
Well he's hugging everything in sight.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.

Banjo Bill, well he stopped stock still,
As the notes come rolling by,
They filled his ears and eased his fears,
And the tears come to his eyes.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.

The old string bass he's lost his place
And his arms just fell like steel.
The guitar man dropped both his hands,
And he swore it was not real.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.

It's golden strings on Eden's wings
At the calling of the squares.
There's fiddle tunes, and there's fiddle tunes,
But Virginia's splittin' hairs.

She cast a spell, no tongue can tell,
No prophet can reveal,
It's as quite as death, just hold your breath,
As she plays Virginia's reel.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.
Oh me, Oh my, how she makes that bow hair fly,
How she hangs that music in the air.

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