I will not die in Old Tenille where the cotton lies in rows,
But I lie in bed in Old Tenille--and I know she knows.
She knows another's in my bed as I lie in Old Tenille.
She'll curse my name and heaven dread as we allemand the reel.
As I lie in bed in old Tenille, I cannot face tomorrow.
The fiddlers' wink and the banjo's plinking be to me such sorrow.
I will not die in Old Tenille, nor be a woman's fool.
So I sharpen up my blade tonight to teach someone my rule.
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