The tender seeds of music

Carried from the British Isles,

Sailed far across the ocean

And lay dormant for awhile,

Then rising in a fertile field

Of Appalachian ground,

Those seeds began to grow

With a high and lonesome sound.

Back in the day

When that field was new,

The banjo bloomed

And the fiddle broke through,

They all grew higher...

Nearly caught on fire,

Those hills started smokin'

And the grass turned blue.

Monroe would plant a mixture

Of the many styles he found,

And slowly grow a hybrid

With a new old-timey sound,

The Stanleys and the Osbornes and

a hundred thousand more,

Sowed seeds beside the rows

Of the ones who came before.

And every keeper of that crop

As the many years have passed,

Has added something special

To that precious field of grass.

Back in the day

When that field was new,

The banjo bloomed

And the fiddle broke through.

They all grew higher...

Nearly caught on fire,

Those hills started smokin'

And the grass turned blue.