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Down on the eastern coast, ruled by the ocean,
Fair weather, foul weather, everybody knows
That just to stay afloat, come winter, spring or summer,
All hands say, "C'mon that's just the way it goes."
Pass around that battered six-string,
Plank 'er down, let the fiddle play;
Tired, but not complainin'
At the end of a Down East day.
Someone on an old banjo will get it all together,
A box with a single row, you got it in your bones;
Tried to change the old tunes, but you find it don't get better,
'Cause everybody knows, some things are carved in stone.
Pass around that battered six-string,
Plank 'er down, let the fiddle play;
Tired, but not complainin'
At the end of a Down East day.
Freezin' in the cold, holes in your sweater,
On a big city sidewalk, pennies to your name;
Or diggin' lots of gold, ah, ya couldn't do much better,
You still got that home blood, that eternal flame.
Pass around that battered six-string,
Plank 'er down, let the fiddle play;
Tired, but not complainin'
At the end of a Down East day.
