Now come and listen to my story,
A story that I know is true,
About a rose that blooms in Georgia,
With a hair of gold and a heart so true.
Way down in the Blue Ridge Mountains,
Way down where the tall pines grow,
Lives my sweetheart of the mountains,
She's my little Georgia rose.
Her mother left her with another,
For a care free life that she had planned,
The baby now she is a lady,
The one her mother could not stand.
We'd often sing love's songs together,
I'd watch her do her little part,
She'd smile at me when I would tell her,
That she was my own sweetheart.
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