| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |
| You left her by the roadside |
| Where you begged to be excused; |
| You left her by the roadside, |
| Then you hid her clothes and shoes. |
| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |
| You took her on the hillside |
| For to make her your wife; |
| You took her on the hillside, |
| And ther you took her life. |
| You dug the grave four feet long |
| And you dug it three feet deep; |
| You rolled the cold clay over her |
| And tromped it with your feet. |
| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |
| «Trouble, oh it’s trouble |
| A-rollin'through my breast; |
| As long as I’m a-livin', boys, |
| They ain’t a-gonna let me rest. |
| I know they’re gonna hang me, |
| Tomorrow I’ll be dead, |
| Though I never even harmed a hair |
| On poor little Laurie’s head." |
| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |
| «In this world and one more |
| Then reckon where I’ll be; |
| If is wasn’t for Sheriff Grayson, |
| I’d be in Tennesee. |
| You can take down my old violin |
| And play it all you please. |
| For at this time tomorrow, boys, |
| Iit’ll be of no use to me." |
| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |
| «At this time tomorrow |
| Where do you reckon I’ll be? |
| Away down yonder in the holler |
| Hangin’on a white oak tree. |
| Hang your head, Tom Dooley, |
| Hang your head and cry; |
| You killed poor Laurie Foster, |
| And you know you’re bound to die. |