©1987 Jack W. Gladstone (Re-recorded 1998 for Legacy)

Inspired by stories about the grand barn and house dances held in southern Alberta and northern Montana – a community tradition.

In the shadow of the Rockies down below the Canadian line,
There are tales told to us from old of the way they lived their lives.
In the great depression thirties when the dollar bills were slow,
All the foothill folk would pack up kids and Friday they did go...

To where Joe had brought his banjo and Clarence his guitar,
To where Monte played his mandolin as the heavens turned to stars.
Old May would bend her fiddle bow as fine as a gal could,
Their orchestra would lift our hearts and echo through the wood...

Down at the Barn Dance,
there were happy feet in sawdust on the floor
Down at the Barn Dance,
there were gals to meet ‘n keep forever more.
And it mattered not how dark outside the world seemed to be.
There was laughter as we do-si-doed in foothill harmony...
Down at the Barn Dance.

Where Gramma sold her moonshine, where Grampa danced till dawn.
Where the foothill band would stay and play until the last were gone.
Days would come, the pay would go, there never seemed enough
But we pulled each other through the gloom with clothes ‘n food ‘n such.

Down at the Barn Dance...

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