Feud Time in Kentucky

When the dew is on the mountain
And the corn is in the still —
When the feudist stalks the feudist
Through the valley, o'er the hill —
When the red is on the forest
And the amber's in the wine —
When the autumn vespers whisper
Through the forest leaf and pine —
Through the mountains of Kentucky
There's a man behind each rock,
With his finger on the trigger
And his cheek against the stock.

When the bead is on the moonshine.
And the summer wanes to fall —
Then the feudist takes his rifle
From the nail upon the wall;
Seeks him out a trusty shelter
In the thicket by the road,
Puts a funnel in the muzzle,
And pours home a heavy load —
Oh, the undertaker's busy,
When the man behind the rock
Gets his finger on the trigger
And his face against the stock.

When the crack is in the rifle
And the smoke is in the blue,
There is always something hasty
For the coroner to do;
All the bards obituary
Find a keen demand for verse,
And there's grease upon the axle
Of the melancholy hearse —
For Death invades the temple.
Never stopping once to knock.
When the finger's on the trigger
And the cheek's against the stock.

So, prithee, traveler, listen:
When the brown is on the hill,
When the dew is on the mountain
And the corn is in the still,
The game law's up on tourists.
And the undertaker's van
Is always on the hurry,
Bringing the punctured man —
For it's feud time in Kentucky —
Every rifle is at cock.
And the finger's on the trigger
And the cheek's against the stock.