I Hate To See The Evening Sun

In The South Of Long Ago Whenever A New Man Appeared For Work In Any Of The Laborers Gangs, He Would Be Asked If He Could Sing. If He Could He Got The Job. The Singing Of These Working Men Set The Rhythm For The Work.

If My Serenade Of Song And Story Should Serve As A Pillow For Some Composer's Head, As Yet Perhaps Unborn, To Dream And Build On Our Fond Melodies In His Tomorrow, I Have Not Labored In Vain.

Setting My Mind On A Musical Instrument Was Like Falling In Love. All The World Seemed Bright And Changed.

You'll Never Miss The Water 'til The Well Runs Dry.

I Hate To See The Evening Sun Go Down.