The stone was slowly creeping But that he did not know, Underneath he found an opening He thought that he could go. He soon got tired and worried, He soon then had to rest, The boulder still was creeping, It was tightening on his chest. He lost all hopes of freedom, No farther could he go; His agony was desperate, That you all well know. His weeping parents lingered near; A mother gray and old. Soon poor Floyd passed away And heaven claimed his soul. A note was in his pocket, The neighbors chanced to find; These few lines were written While he had strength and mind: "Give this note to mother, Tell her not to cry; Tell her not to wait for me, I will meet her by and by." --Jilson Setters This ballad was written by fifty-year-old Adam Crisp who lived in Fletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Collins' death. Crisp could neither read nor write but composed many ballads. FLOYD COLLINS' FATE Come all you young people And listen to what I tell: The fate of Floyd Collins, Alas, we all know well. His face was fair and handsome, His heart was true and brave, His body now lies sleeping In a lonely sandstone cave. How sad, how sad the story, It fills our eyes with tears, His memory will linger For many, many a year. His broken-hearted father Who tried his boy to save Will now weep tears of sorrow At the door of Floyd's cave. Oh, mother, don't you worry, Dear father, don't be sad; I'll tell you all my troubles In an awful dream I had; I dreamed that I was prisoner, My life could not be saved, I cried, "Oh! must I perish, Within the silent cave?" The rescue party gathered, They labored night and day To move the mighty boulder That stood within the way. "To rescue Floyd Collins!" This was the battlecry. "We will never, no, we will never Let Floyd Collins die."