There���s no use in talking ���bout the Big Bend Gal, That lives on the county line; For Betsy Jane from the prairie plain Just leaves them way behind. You never would see such a likely woman, If you searched out all creation; She beats the gals from the flat creek bottom, She���s the queen of the whole plantation. 
She totes herself like a *flying squirrel And the men folk all come around; And lord how the dewdrops get off the grass When she puts her feet upon the ground. She���s just as ripe as an apple on a tree, And she looks so pretty and snug; And her mouth���s just as sweet as a corncob stopper That comes out of a molasses jug. 
The calf comes a-loping when the old cow calls, And the possum dog comes to the horn; And the grape vine climbs up the tall oak tree, And the morning glory wraps around the corn. And a fellow will turn around and come pretty quick, When he hears that pretty gal laugh; She hangs on his arm like a bird on a tree As they both go walking up the path. 
Her eyes give light like a foxfire chunk, And her teeth are white as snow; And the fellers in the cotton patch keep looking back When they see her come chopping down the row. She���s gone crowd the hands where the crabgrass grows, And kill the weeds as she goes; She skippers up the furrow in a cloud of dust, As she busts them clods with a hoe. * 
file from: www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
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