What was the figure? 90 different versions of "Barbara Allen" found in one county in Virginia alone?

If you learn a song from a collection by Sharp, Lomax, Sandburg, et al., that's the version that that particular collector picked up from that particular singer, who may very well have made changes, either intentionally or inadvertently, from the version that he or she learned from someone else. Who in turn—

Little dogs have little fleas
Upon their backs to bite 'em.
And little fleas have littler fleas,
And so ad infinitum.

And the same goes for learning songs from records. What I said above holds for both field recordings and commercial recordings as well as for books. Many people, including me, have learned, and continue to learn, songs from commercial recordings, a very rich source of material. And there is much variation there. For example, I have two recordings of The Unquiet Grave, one by Joan Baez and the other by Andrew Rowan Summers. They differ. Only slightly, but a word here and a line there. And I believe Baez sings a verse that Summers does not. Along with this, I have texts of the same ballad in several books, all essentially the same, but each one differing a little from the others. The version that I sing is a blending of several of the versions that I have heard and read, mostly this one, some of that one, and a bit of the other.

But all the versions tell the same story and tell it quite effectively.

Check the Child collection. There are sometimes dozens of versions of the same ballad, all telling, essentially, the same story, but with many variations in the way the story is told.

In the late 1950s, I took a class in "The Popular Ballad" from Prof. David C. Fowler in the University of Washington English Literature department. Dr. Fowler has written a book or two on the ballads, and he sang a bit himself. When the class was finished (along with the final exam), one of the students who sang and played the Celtic harp, invited the class to her home to have a song fest. During the course of the evening, Dr. Fowler asked if anyone knew a version of The Gypsy Laddie, Child #200. I knew one: The Wraggle-Taggle Gypsies. So I sang it.

But a couple of years before this, late one night, a singing friend of mine and I sat in an all-night restaurant over coffee, going over the words of The Wraggle-Taggle Gypsies, which, incidentally, both of us had learned from a Susan Reed record. We came up with the notion that if one small change were made in the final verse, it would really add a dramatic punch to the song, which we both felt it seemed to lack.

The second to last verse goes

"Last night I slept in a goose feather bed
With the sheets turned back so bravely-oh.
Tonight I'll sleep in a cold, open field,
Along with the wraggle-taggle gypsies-oh."

The final verse in the "official, ordained, and certified" verse merely repeats the same thing, but in the third person.

Last night she slept in a goose feather bed. . . .

What we came up with at two o'clock in the morning over coffee was to keep that verse in the third person, but change one word. So it came out

Last night she slept in a goose feather bed
With the sheets turned back so bravely-oh.
Tonight she sleeps in a cold, open grave,
Along with the wraggle-taggle gypsies-oh.

Ka-POW!! Maybe that's a bit much, but it certainly gives the end of the song a dramatic punch!

Okay, back to the class song-fest. I'd been singing the song that way for a couple of years, and that's the way I sang it that night.

Dr. Fowler's eyebrows went up.

"Where," he asked, "did you learn that version? That last verse?"

I figured, "Uh oh! I'm busted!" I confessed what my friend and I had done along with our reasoning on the matter, and threw myself on Dr. Fowler's mercy.

"You're right!" he said. "It really ends the ballad with a shocker."

"But," I stammered, "I'm not sure that we should have been messing around with a traditional ballad like that."

"I like it," he said. "I don't know for certain, but there may be versions already in existence that end that way. It makes sense dramatically and it does lend impact to the ending. I don't believe field collectors and scholars should make changes, even though many of them did, thinking they were 'improving' them, or 'cleaning them up' and making them less shocking to the easily shocked. That's poor scholarship, really. But performers—now, I think that's different. Changes should not be made indiscriminately, but if you have a good reason for it, then why not, if it makes for a better story?"

And then he used what I consider the magic words: "That's a minstrel's prerogative. Minstrels and traditional folk singers [Emphasis mine—DF] often altered words for the very same reason you did."

I knew that what Dr. Fowler said was true. I felt guilty and vindicated at the same time.

But before one starts making changes right, left, and center, I think they should ponder the matter carefully and have a darned good reason for making a change. If changing of a word or two makes the line easier to sing and doesn't alter the meaning, then why not? Or some verses may be a bit of a jolt or a distraction to an audience, in some cases possibly eliciting inappropriate snickers from the immature. For example, going back to The Unquiet Grave. The "task" verse in some versions:

"Go fetch me water from the desert,
And blood from out of a stone,
And fetch me milk from a fair maiden's breast
That young man never has known."

I've had the occasional audience member either look shocked or get the giggles at this verse. A distraction from the narrative and from the point of the song. So I've dropped it. And—since the moral of this particular ballad is that one should not mourn overlong for the departed because it was believed mourning overlong would disturb them in their grave and "wet their winding sheet with tears." So mourn, yes. But after a decent interval (a year at most), get on with your life and let the dear departed rest. I included this verse from another version, putting it toward the end.

"Mourn not for me, my own true love.
Mourn not for me, I pray,
For I must leave you and all the world
And turn down to my grave."

Then he asks "When shall we meet again?" and she responds, "When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees turn green and spring up again." Meaning, it isn't going to happen, so let it go. And get on with your life.

A sad lesson, really, but one to take to heart.

The problem with making changes that are simply not well thought out is that all too often someone will not understand a word or two and will change it to something they do understand, not being familiar with what might be, say, a technical term in a sea chantey or other work song. Or certain traditions behind a song. A little ballad scholarship can help avoid this. Learn as much about the background of the song as you can. If you don't really understand a word or a line, probably best to leave it alone.

And some really dumb changes take place sometimes when a perfectly good line containing an evocative image doesn't rhyme. Someone changes a word or two to make it rhyme, producing a line that sounds awkward, is awkward to sing, and at the same time, loses the image. If it doesn't rhyme, probably best to simply let it go.

As Dr. Fowler said, if you are going to change a traditional song or ballad, know what you are doing, and have a good reason for any change you might make.

Don Firth