I / / / | / / V / | / / / / | / / I / |

Hang down your head Tom Dooley,
hang down your head and cry,
cause at this time tomorrow
poor boy, you're bound to die.

You took her on the mountain
where a cold wind blows.
You took her on the mountain
and there you took her clothes.

You dug a four foot grave
you dug it three feet deep.
You throwed the cold clay o'er her
and tromped it with your feet.

You took her on the mountain
there you took her life.
You took her on the mountain
and you stabbed her with your knife.

If it hadn't been for Grayson
you know where you'd be.
If it hadn't been for Grayson
you'd have been in Tennessee.

At this time tomorrow you know where you'll be
down in the lonesome valley
hanging from a white oak tree.

Take down your violin and
play yourself some blues
cause at this time tomorrow it'll be no use to you.