D
Hang your head, Tom Dooley,
                                     A7                                                         
Hang your head and cry;
 
You killed poor Laurie Foster,
                                                     D
And you know you're bound to die. 

   D
You left her by the roadside
                                                  A7     
Where you begged to be excused;
 
You left her by the roadside,
                                                    D
Then you hid her clothes and shoes.

You took her on the hillside
For to make her your wife;
You took her on the hillside,
And ther you took her life.

 You dug the grave four feet long
And you dug it three feet deep;
You rolled the cold clay over her
 And tromped it with your feet.

"Trouble, oh it's trouble
A-rollin' through my breast;
As long as I'm a-livin', boys,
They ain't a-gonna let me rest.
 
I know they're gonna hang me,
Tomorrow I'll be dead,
Though I never even harmed a hair
On poor little Laurie's head."
 
"In this world and one more
Then reckon where I'll be;
If is wasn't for Sheriff Grayson,
I'd be in Tennesee.
 
You can take down my old violin
And play it all you please.
For at this time tomorrow, boys,
It'll be of no use to me."
 
"At this time tomorrow
Where do you reckon I'll be?
Away down yonder in the holler
Hangin' on a white oak tree.