layin' grandpa's fiddle on the front porch swing
s I feel my fingers dancin' on the strings
can almost hear my grandma sing
n the Hills of Appalachia


n that country road in the summer rain
could drink the air like a sweet champaigne
oney suckle vines swam around my brain
n the Hills of Appalachia


s I close my eyes and draw that bow
can feel the mud wet between my toes
rom down by the river where we used to go
n the Hills of Appalachia


e'd make maple syrup from the backyard trees
nd steal the honey frrom the honey bees
ogether skippin' stones from across the stream
n the Hills of Appalachia


ayin' on the ground countin' fallin' stars
hasin' fireflies with mama's mason jars
hen I left my home, I left my heart
n the Hills of Appalachia


his Ol' fingerboard is worn and thin
nd the wood remembers my grandpa's chin
very note I'm playin' takes me back again
n the Hills of Appalachia


ow the songs I play have a touch of home
nd the memories linger even though I'm grown
play grandpa's fiddle and I'm not alone
n the Hills of Appalachia


layin' grandpa's fiddle on the front porch swing...

(C)2003 Arlene Faith Kortright - Wooden Stone Music и ASCAP Company