Great grandpa had 9 children. His wife died with the last one and he remarried, but had no more children. he was a grouch, but good with men and horses. there's a story about him. One day he was delivering meat and dairy and he came up on a house burning. This was in Duxbury, you can imagine those old white mansions on the coast. anyway, all the people were on the lawn except the master who was trapped in an upstairs bedroom. Without a thought, Great Grandpa unhooked one of his best Percherons from the team and rode him bareback into the fire to rescue the man. He let him off, hooked the horse back up and went about his way. As I said he was kind of a curmudgeon and rapscallion and one day he got a letter from the town elders asking him to come before the magistrate. he thought he was in trouble for some charade or scrape, but rather they awarded him with a certificate for rescuing the man who was one of the elders. I have that certificate and news story in my parents records.
A lively coastal folk ballad arranged for fiddle, guitar, and mandolin, chronicling a stubborn teamster and his heavy Percheron rescuing an elder from a coastal mansion fire.
#FolkBallad #SongLyrics #NewEnglandLore
Buy & Download your own copy for $1.50:
https://vervemusic.bandcamp.com/track/the-reluctant-hero-of-duxbury-another-verve-original
The wagon wheels rattle on gravel and shell,
Past the white captain mansions where wealthy folk dwell.
Nine motherless children wait home for the bread,
While the sour-faced teamster drives onward ahead.
With the dairy and beef barrels heavy behind,
He has no gentle word for the rest of mankind,
Just a scowl for the weather and spit for the road,
And two giant gray Percherons pulling the load.
Ride him bareback, hold to the mane,
A working-class teamster who spits in the rain.
Two tons of gray iron, no saddle, no reins,
A rough-tempered rascal who rode through the flames.
Black smoke rolls up thick where the marsh grass turns brown,
A grand coastal manor is burning right down.
The gentlefolk weep on the green ocean side,
While the master is trapped in the rafters inside.
The wagon comes rattling right to the lawn,
The teamster sees what must be finished and done.
He unhooks the tugs from the whiffletree pin,
Slips the biggest gray free, and he turns the beast in.
Ride him bareback, hold to the mane,
A working-class teamster who spits in the rain.
Two tons of gray iron, no saddle, no reins,
A rough-tempered rascal who rode through the flames.
No cinch and no stirrup, just knuckles and bone,
He drove the great draft horse straight into the stone.
Through falling charred hemlock and sparks showering red,
He dragged the choke-blinded old elder ahead.
He tumbled him safe on the salt-water grass,
Never waiting for thanks as the weeping folk pass.
He snapped the lines tight on the singletree ring,
And drove off with butter before bells could ring.
Ride him bareback, hold to the mane,
A working-class teamster who spits in the rain.
Two tons of gray iron, no saddle, no reins,
A rough-tempered rascal who rode through the flames.
A letter arrived when the winter was cold,
To answer the town where the court records hold.
He cursed up the courthouse with brimstone and bile,
Expecting a fine for some fight in the aisle.
The magistrate rose with a parchment in hand,
From the elder he pulled from the burning timber brand.
A medal of honor for an old rascal's name,
Who took back his team and went on just the same.
Ride him bareback, hold to the mane,
A working-class teamster who spits in the rain.
Two tons of gray iron, no saddle, no reins,
A rough-tempered rascal who rode through the flames.
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