Whippoorwill
The Mountain Whippoorwill written by Stephen Vincent Benet 1925
Up in the mountains, it’s lonesome all the time,
(Sof’ win’ slewin’ thu’ the sweet-potato vine.)
Up in the mountains, it’s lonesome for a child,
(Whippoorwills a-callin’ when the sap runs wild.)
Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,
Everythin’s as lazy as an old houn’ dog.
Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,
Don’t want nuthin’ an’ never got it yet.
Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,
Raised runnin’ ragged thu’ the cockleburrs and corn.
Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.
Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.
Never had a mammy to teach me pretty-please.
Think she was a whippoorwill, a-skittin’ thu’ the trees.
Never had a brother ner a whole pair of pants,
But when I start to fiddle, why, yuh got to start to dance!
Listen to my fiddle — Kingdom Come — Kingdom Come!
Hear the frogs a-chunkin’ “Jug o’ rum, Jug o’ rum!”
Hear that mountain whippoorwill be lonesome in the air,
An’ I’ll tell yuh how I travelled to the Essex County Fair.
Essex County has a mighty pretty fair,
All the smarty fiddlers from the South come there.
Elbows flyin’ as they rosin up the bow
For the First Prize Contest in the Georgia Fiddlers’ Show.
Old Dan Wheeling, with his whiskers in his ears,
King-pin fiddler for nearly twenty years.
Big Tom Sargent, with his blue wall-eye,
An’ Little Jimmy Weezer that can make a fiddle cry.
All sittin’ roun’, spittin’ high an’ struttin’ proud,
(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh better bug yore eyes!)
Tun-a-tun-a-tunin’ while the jedges told the crowd
Them that got the mostest claps’d win the bestest prize.
Everybody waitin’ for the first tweedle-dee,
When in comes a-stumblin’ — hill-billy me!
Bowed right pretty to the jedges an’ the rest,
Took a silver dollar from a hole inside my vest,
Plunked it on the table an’ said, “There’s my callin’ card!
An’ anyone that licks me — well, he’s got to fiddle hard!”
Old Dan Wheeling, he was laughin’ fit to holler,
Little Jimmy Weezer said, “There’s one dead dollar!”
Big Tom Sargent had a yaller-toothy grin,
But I tucked my little whippoorwill spang underneath my chin,
An’ petted it an’ tuned it till the jedges said, “Begin!”
Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;
He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.
He could fiddle down a possum from a mile-high tree,
He could fiddle up a whale from the bottom of the sea.
Yuh could hear hands spankin’ till they spanked each other raw,
When he finished variations on “Turkey in the Straw.”
Little Jimmy Weezer was the next to play;
He could fiddle all night, he could fiddle all day.
He could fiddle chills, he could fiddle fever,
He could make a fiddle rustle like a lowland river.
He could make a fiddle croon like a lovin’ woman.
An’ they clapped like thunder when he’d finished strummin’.
Then came the ruck of the bob-tailed fiddlers,
The let’s-go-easies, the fair-to-middlers.
They got their claps an’ they lost their bicker,
An’ they all settled back for some more corn-licker.
An’ the crowd was tired of their no-count squealing,
When out in the center steps Old Dan Wheeling.
He fiddled high and he fiddled low,
(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh got to spread yore wings!)
He fiddled and fiddled with a cherrrywood bow,
(Old Dan Wheeling’s got bee-honey in his strings).
He fiddled a wind by the lonesome moon,
He fiddled a most almighty tune.
He started fiddling like a ghost.
He ended fiddling like a host.
He fiddled north an’ he fiddled south,
He fiddled the heart right out of yore mouth.
He fiddled here an’ he fiddled there.
He fiddled salvation everywhere.
When he was finished, the crowd cut loose,
(Whippoorwill, they’s rain on yore breast.)
An’ I sat there wonderin’ “What’s the use?”
(Whippoorwill, fly home to yore nest.)
But I stood up pert an’ I took my bow,
An’ my fiddle went to my shoulder, so.
An’ — they wasn’t no crowd to get me fazed —
But I was alone where I was raised.
Up in the mountains, so still it makes yuh skeered.
Where God lies sleepin’ in his big white beard.
An’ I heard the sound of the squirrel in the pine,
An’ I heard the earth a-breathin’ thu’ the long night-time.
They’ve fiddled the rose, and they’ve fiddled the thorn,
But they haven’t fiddled the mountain-corn.
They’ve fiddled sinful an’ fiddled moral,
But they haven’t fiddled the breshwood-laurel.
They’ve fiddled loud, and they’ve fiddled still,
But they haven’t fiddled the whippoorwill.
I started off with a dump-diddle-dump,
(Oh, hell’s broke loose in Georgia!)
Skunk-cabbage growin’ by the bee-gum stump.
(Whippoorwill, yo’re singin’ now!)
My mother was a whippoorwill pert,
My father, he was lazy,
But I’m hell broke loose in a new store shirt
To fiddle all Georgia crazy.
Swing yore partners — up an’ down the middle!
Sashay now — oh, listen to that fiddle!
Flapjacks flippin’ on a red-hot griddle,
An’ hell’s broke loose,
Hell’s broke loose,
Fire on the mountains — snakes in the grass.
Satan’s here a-bilin’ — oh, Lordy, let him pass!
Go down Moses, set my people free;
Pop goes the weasel thu’ the old Red Sea!
Jonah sittin’ on a hickory-bough,
Up jumps a whale — an’ where’s yore prophet now?
Rabbit in the pea-patch, possum in the pot,
Try an’ stop my fiddle, now my fiddle’s gettin’ hot!
Whippoorwill, singin’ thu’ the mountain hush,
Whippoorwill, shoutin’ from the burnin’ bush,
Whippoorwill, cryin’ in the stable-door,
Sing tonight as yuh never sang before!
Hell’s broke loose like a stompin’ mountain-shoat,
Sing till yuh bust the gold in yore throat!
Hell’s broke loose for forty miles aroun’
Bound to stop yore music if yuh don’t sing it down.
Sing on the mountains, little whippoorwill,
Sing to the valleys, an’ slap ’em with a hill,
For I’m struttin’ high as an eagle’s quill,
An’ hell’s broke loose,
Hell’s broke loose,
Hell’s broke loose in Georgia!
They wasn’t a sound when I stopped bowin’,
(Whippoorwill, yuh can sing no more.)
But, somewhere or other, the dawn was growin’,
(Oh, mountain whippoorwill!)
An’ I thought, “I’ve fiddled all night an’ lost,
Yo’re a good hill-billy, but yuh’ve been bossed.”
So I went to congratulate old man Dan,
— But he put his fiddle into my han’ —
An’ then the noise of the crowd began!
I hope you enjoyed the poem! I’ve shared it a few times over the years. We’ve been hearing two whippoorwills for the last week or so. They call out to each other in late evening and again in early morning. One is way up on the ridge above us and one is back along the ridge behind the chicken lot.
The other morning as I was making my morning cup of postum I slipped the window up and recorded the one on the ridge. I’ll share the sound with you in a couple of days.
Hard for me to believe at one time in my area there were so many whippoorwills that their sound made it hard to hear the dogs run when folks were fox or coon hunting.
Last night’s video: Teaching Corie She Ought to Listen to Her Momma.
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Love this. Have you ever read his poem “John Brown’s Body”? My favorite line is “Wherever the Wind of Georgia runs it smells of peaches long in the sun”.
Anita-I have never read that one. I will look it up 🙂
I love the poem! I have been taking fiddle lessons for over a year now. I am so far from a pretty tune but I am hopeful and coming along all the time.
This poem made me think about playing Lonesome Whippoorwill! Maybe I will try that!
Really enjoyed this – made me think of the song by Charlie Daniels The Devil went down to Georgia!
Prayers for the family ❤️
I haven’t heard a whippoorwill since I was a kid, we don’t really have many here in upper West Virginia anymore. My friend lives on a farm way outside of town and she still has some though. Love to hear them sing.
Thank you for the whipporwill poem. When we first moved here forty
years ago we could listen to them at night. Now they have disappeared
and we miss them.
Thank you, Tom
Beautiful poem & thoughts about Whippoorwills! Thanks for sharing & all you do!
Thinking of Miss Cindy & all of you who love her
A whippoorwill sang just outside my open window a few nights ago. Up close their call is pretty loud. I could hear another answering him from a ways away. We also have a catbird staying with us for a while. My wife heard his call and didn’t know what it was. I told her what it was but it was several days before I saw the bird. It’s been a bit since I saw or heard one. We live in town with no wooded areas nearby; so having these visitors is a welcome thing. We see lots of interesting birds because Texas is on the flyway for so many species.
Blessings to all, and especially Miss Cindy . . .
Very sweet poem! Love hearing the Whippoorwill sing.
Tipper, your entry brough back many precious memories of growing up, way way up in the Appalachian mountains. I’ll share a memory now. Family would sit on the upper porch. The only light was from an old oil lamp and if the moon was shining that night. And the mountain fragrance was oh so sweet, indescribably wonderful. I cant explain the way it made this little girl feel as I sat surrounded by my loving family and listening to the whipowill and the calls of the night birds of long, long ago. You’d have to have been there. You and I share a kinship and a true love of the Appalachian mountains. It’s more of a deep down feeling that words can’t describe, but we try to anyway. Thank you for sharing so much of the things I love and the sweet memories that stay in my heart and mind. Life is a Treasure, God is Great, and we are Blessed.
According to an article published in the Greeneville (TN) Sun, by Cameron Judd, on Nov 18, 2020, this poem was inspired by an account of Marcus Lowell Stokes, known as Lowe Stokes, coming out of the Georgia mountains and winning a fiddling convention in Atlanta in 1924. Stokes went on to play with several string bands, including the Skillit Lickers. You can find recordings of his music on YouTube by searching Lowe Stokes. He lost his right hand in an accident with a shotgun. A friend fitted him with a hook of sorts allowing him to continue to play. He played until his death in 1983. Charlie Daniels is said to have been inspired by Stokes when writing “The Devil Went Down To Georgia”.
Thanks for the info. Sure sounds real and especially the Daniels part.
Nothing more calming for me is sitting on my porch and listening to the whooppoorwills. Perfect ending to a long day.
GOT MY COOKBOOK
Stay safe and well
You and your family inspire me so much. We live in such a world where there is hardly any peace, but when I watch you and yours, I feel a calm. I am 56 years old, but I remember growing up in a wonderful era. I sure wish that the simple life was still popular. Playing until dark with my mother calling to come in but instead I wanted to stay outside and listen to the frogs or crickets. Wow, I wish we could go back . Please take care and prayers for your family.
I would like to sitting and listening to that Fiddlers show, that would be amazing
I have never heard the sounds of the whippoorwill but would love to hear them. Will look forward to your recording.
I loved listening to the whipperwills in the evening sitting on granny and pawpaws screened in porch when I was little. They lived way out Warwoman in Clayton GA so you could hear all sorts of critters out there. Never hear them here at the house unfortunately but when we go camping at Fontana in the summertime you can hear them out there.
Don’t often hear a whippoorwill, nor the call of a bobwhite, too many feral cats. Bears are about more, and someone spotted a bobcat last summer. The last time I remember a bobcat was when I was a kid. It was paying a visit to our chicken coop.
Loved the poem–Mama’s daddy was a fiddler and she loved to tell about his fiddle and the play parties they went to. The fiddle was destroyed in a house fire and he never got another one. I haven’t heard a whippoorwill many years.
I’m remembering hearing whippoorwills in the dark of early mornings on spring gobbler hunts. Some folks don’t pick up the difference between the calls of the whippoorwill and the chuck-will’s widow. I have heard the two calling simultaneously, and that is real music. You must be close, or have keen hearing, or both, to pick up the soft “chuck” that begins the chuck-will’s repetitive love song, which, to my ear, lacks the plaintive quality of the whippoorwill’s more familiar notes.
Nothing more calming than sitting on porch and listening to the whippoorwills after a long day.
GOT MY COOK BOOK
Be safe and stay well.
The whippoorwill was the most lonesome sound when I was young and the hills were so quiet. I haven’t heard one a-callin’ this year, maybe because I’m too skeered to be outside very late up here in the boonies.
Praying for Miss Cindy every day!
I lived most of my life on the Kansas prairie; the only whippoorwill I’ve ever heard was one that resided in the beautiful cemetery just outside of town. I remember attending a funeral once and as soon as the preacher said his last amen, the whippoorwill began to let out his sorrowful call. It was beautiful!
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a whippoorwill, but my grandparents truly loved those birds and talked about them often. I think this was a long poem and honestly after nursing college, I HATE reading too much and that’s why I mainly read the Bible. It was a good poem and I think sorta masculine. Happy freezing spring balls flying from the sky!
I love to hear the whippoorwills at night. They just recently started their nightly seenades here on the Cumberland Plateau.
Glad you have whippoorwills. I miss them. Haven’t heard one in years. Makes me want to come up your way in the hopes of hearing one. I’m too far out of the mountains. They are part of the soundtrack of my childhood, always heard them when we were fishing at night on Cumberland River. And speaking of soundtracks, it would rest my heart to just be around and listen to you all talk if I never said a word.
I have never seen such a long Poem. Thank you for sharing Tipper. Happy Spring & Garden Planting.
The poem made me think of the Whippoorwills I use to hear when I was growing up. My husband also heard them. We don’t hear them very often anymore unless we’re camping somewhere way out in the boondocks. Last fall we did have one stop right behind our house has it was migrating through. It’s call woke us up in the early morning hours and we sat there by the window listening to it. We were so thrilled and hoped it would come back this spring and make our woods it’s home, but alas that has not happened so far. We do have the type of woods it would like to inhabit, but we have feral cats which have been a problem for all kinds of song birds. Maybe one of these days Whippoorwills will return to our woods and we will get to be serenaded to sleep by their lovely song.
Tipper,
I think of Hank Williams’ song , “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”, every time I hear the word Whippoorwill. Hank or whoever wrote the song also included a verse about a robin.
Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves begin to die
Sanford, when I was about 20 years old, I worked with a man we called Punchy. I have heard him tell many times about being in the Korean War and seeing some of the coldest, hard hearted solders cry like babies when they heard Hank sing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”.
I haven’t heard a whipporwill or my favorite, the whistle of a bobwhite quail in several years in my area. It is no wonder, since around here, every vacant spot of land is being turned in to a housing development. These housing developments have killed or destroyed more wildlife than hunters ever have. but the do gooders that live in these places blame and think hunters are cruel. Haven’t heard a coon dog or pack of beagles running either, the last time a friend tried to coon hunt on my property and the adjoining property one of these new outsiders that have moved in called the law on him. He said the lawman stayed awhile with him and told him his dogs sure were sounding good and apologized for having to say anything since he was breaking no laws. These outsiders were complaining about the noise the dogs make when they are running. All of them are not bad, but I wish a some of them would go back to where they came from, if everything was so great where they were at, why did they move to start with? To me the running dogs are singing a melody especially if the pack has one dog singing bass and shaking the leaves on the trees. Sorry for sounding off so early this morning. How I long for the old days and some ways of the past.
Amen and amen, brother. Preach on
I’m with you, Randy. We might be kin.
That must have inspired Charlie Daniels!
I was thinking the same thing!
Surely, that is one of the greatest poems I’ve ever read. Bless you for sharing this.
When I hear a whippoorwill it makes me homesick for our grandparent’s place. Sitting on the porch swing, the screen door squeaking as the children run in and out, and playing tag in the dirt yard. The smell of Mamaw cooking breakfast would waft through the crisp mountain air. Oh the memories a whippoorwill’s music conjures up. Thank you, Lord, for the simple things in life! We don’t have them here, but it sure is nice when we go to visit. They are few and far between nowadays.
God bless you Tipper, I hear them here at night when I’m sitting on the porch, I enjoyed the story greatly , it brought about a few tears, God is in the story, as is the devil, God bless you and your family, God bless Ms Cindy in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Amen
Wow, gotta print that one out to reread, and if you put that ‘southern-slang’ with it… I haven’t heard them in years either but didn’t think about it til you posted the info about them. We have Mourning Doves a lot where I live and it is so interesting to watch them, if you see one you know the other one is very close. Listening to you and Corie yesterday was interesting. Take in all the different sentences I have heard and use a lot, tuk, not so much. You do always make your videos so interesting. Give Granny and Miss Cindy my thoughts and prayers. God Bless.