Classic Poem

Come all you folks and gather
To hear the awful tale
Of the Bloody Breathitt farmer
Taken from the county jail.

It was on Christmas morning
In Nineteen twenty-nine;
Chet Fugate was the victim,
On a day both clear and fine.

Clay Watkins had been murdered
It was by Fugate's hand.
And when the jailer woke that day
He faced a threatening band.

" We've got you covered with our guns, "
The leader quickly said.
" You give up Chester Fugate now
Or we will shoot you dead. "

The jailer brave could do naught else;
His hands and legs were tied;
And had he sought to anger them
He surely would have died.

They pulled Chet Fugate from his cell
And took him from the jail;
A hundred men were waiting there,
They knew they must not fail.

Away they drove, and nothing more
Was heard till nearly dawn.
Jim Butler on his quiet farm
Went out that Christmas morn.

For fodder he had started out —
But what an awful sound!
He heard both groans and prayers,
And soon Chet Fugate found.

A shout, a cry, and help soon came
To take Fugate away,
Shot in a dozen places
In the deep snow there he lay.

So they avenged Clay Watkins
That early Christmas morn;
His slayer lived to rue the day
And hour that he was born.