Oh Mrs. Wurly where’s your son?
Is he finding his way by the stars of his gun?
Quiet and surly he walks with no shoes
He finds not a heart, nor a spade for some food.
When will he yield his wandering wheels to the signs?
When will he give his sweet old soul the time?
To lay it down, oh lay it down
To lay it down, oh lay it down
On the mountainside, on the mountainside
Where our prayers collide…. with the mountainside
Sweet Mrs. Wurley what do you see,
Out the old window beneath the arms of the tree?
Can you play his melody through the glass of memory?
Can you hear his whistling’ hummin’ home on the breeze?
When will he yield his wandering wheels to the signs?
When will he give his sweet old soul the time?
To lay it down, oh lay it down
To lay it down, oh lay it down
On the mountainside, on the mountainside
Where our prayers collide…. with the mountainside
Lay it down, oh lay it down
Lay it down, oh lay it down
On the mountainside, on the mountainside
Where our prayers collide…. with the mountainside
This album speaks to the continuum of African diasporic culture that is central to the vibrant canon of Americana folk music. Bandcamp Album of the Day May 29, 2020
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