The Stillwater Hobos​.​.​. Live at the Frances! (Volume 1)

by The Stillwater Hobos

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1.
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03:37

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Lyrics by Taylor Posey, Music by Austin Walker

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released August 7, 2014

Austin Walker: Guitar, harmonica, lead vocal.
Taylor Posey: Mandolin.
Will Teller: Fiddle, vocal.
Michael Malpiedi: Upright bass, vocal.
With special guest Peter Councell on drums.

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Mixed and Engineered by Evan Bradford
Recorded at Echo Mountain Recording, Asheville, NC
Mixed at Mixtown USA, Asheville, NC
Mastered by Hans Dekline at Sound Bites Dog
Photographs - Josh Rhinehart

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The Stillwater Hobos Asheville, North Carolina

The Stillwater Hobos formed in 2010 one night in Galway while on the way to Rome.

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Track Name: By the Junipers
I stole the golden calf from mister Crowley’s halls
He caught with his mouth before daylight
That was the first time I saw
The freckles on the wall
Before my flannel shirt-tails turned to night

So come away my turtledove don’t tarry anymore
There’s a crime been lingering in Salem town
It’s funny but it’s true
The worst a man could do
To walk the riverbanks without a sound

So come away, come away
Leave the bottle, take the gin
And we’ll stand by the junipers
As we begin again

So I picked up my accordion and played from reel to reel
And drunk a health to Bertram by the bay
Devouring northern winds
We’ll loudly make amends
And beg the handsome boatmen here to stay

Before the tune was done we hammered out a song
And played John Hardy’s rag against the crowd
But curfew rang at two
And purple men in blue
They knocked the uilleann pipes and bodhrán down
Track Name: Emmas Grove
Across golden fields at Emmas Grove,
We’ve thrown a cover for the one I love,
And rain comes down from a weary loom:
The cloudy denim, the cotton moon

And I’ll sing o’er 'til you catch your breath
The nightly labor, like night was deaf,
And if you’re weary, if you want love:
Come lie in the fields at Emma’s Grove.

Wring out your dress in a mountain fold,
Then steal my banjo with its burden of gold.
For your braids are shy like a covey flown
And rustling over your wedding gown.

In lilting rhymes a story I’ll tell:
A blackbird calling, you know him well,
"And if you were mine, I’d tie a bow
Round every tree at Emmas Grove."

Across a vale so fair and long
I know a storehouse of victory songs,
So I carry my step through yarrow and fern,
Through yellow poppies, forget what I’ve learned.

But memory's honey, and I know a song:
“Be true my blossom, don’t tarry long.”
Though my yoke is hard, it’s not far I’ll rove
From fields of golden at Emmas Grove.