Here's a song revolving around the Rowan County War, a clan feud which took place in rural Kentucky from 1884-1887. This song is referenced in the linked Wikipedia article, but I've only found its text in one place -- the archives of Morehead State University (link), which owes its creation, in part, to this feud. (The county, hoping to improve their reputation from that as a feuding town, founded the original Morehead Normal School, which preceded the current institution).

The Library of Congress (link) has a recording of the song, via (I believe) the Alan Lomax Archive (link) -- it's the same man singing at both sources, and stops prematurely due to a skip in the track. The recording is of the man who wrote the song, J. W. Day; his recreation is nearly identical to the text of the song, sans him getting mixed up in a spot just prior to the end, but it is an awfully long song, so I won't fault him. The text is taken from a snipping of the Lexington Drummer, which started publication about the time of the incident.

The text itself is fairly typical of American ballads, other than its impressive length -- I assume this is thanks mostly to it being preserved in text rather than just recalling the highlights from memory. It details the actions of the day and turns the song into a lesson against the moral dangers of alcohol and feuding.

THE ROWAN COUNTY TROUBLE
Composed by J. W. Day

Come, all young men and ladies,
  Mothers and fathers too,
I'll relate to you a history
  Of the Rowan county crew--
Concerning bloody Rowan
  And her many hideous deeds--
My friends, please give attention,
  Remember how it reads.

It was in the month of August,
  All on election day,
John Martin he was wounded,
  They say, by Johnnie Day.
Martin could not believe it,
  He could not think it so,
He thought it Floyd Toliver
  That struck the fatal blow.

They shot and killed Sol. Bradley,
  A sober, innocent man.
Left his wife and loving children
  To do the best they can.
They wounded young Ad. Sizemore,
  Although his life was saved--
He seems to shun the grog-shop
  Since he stood so near the grave.

Martin did recover,
  Some months had come and passed,
In the town of Morehead,
  Those men had met at last
Toliver and a friend or two
  About the streets did walk,
He seemed to be uneasy--
  With no one wished to talk.

He walked into Judge Cary's grocery,
  And stepped up to the bar,
But little did he think, dear friends,
  He had met that fatal hour.
The sting of death was near him,
  Martin rushed in at the door,
A few words passed between them
  Concerning a row before.

The people were soon frightened,
  Began to rush out of the room,
A ball from Martin's pistol
  Layed Toliver in the tomb.
The friends then gathered 'round him--
  The wife to weep and wail--
Martin was arrested
  And soon confined in jail.

He was put in the jail of Rowan,
  There to remain awhile
In the hands of law and justice,
  To bravely stand his trial.
The people talked of lynching him,
  At present, though they failed,
The prisoner's friends soon move dhim
  Unto Winchester jail.

Some persons forged an order--
  Their names I do not know--
The plan soon was agreed upon,
  For Martin they did go.
Martin seemed discouraged,
  He seemed to be in dread,
"They've sought a plan to kill me,"
  To the jailer Martin said.

They put the handcuffs on him,
  His heart was in distress,
They hurried to the station,
  Stepped on the night express.
Along the line she lumbered
  At her usual speed;
There were only two in number
  To commit the dreadful deed.

Martin was in the smoking car,
  Accompanied by his wife,
They did not want her present
  When they took her husband's life
When they arrived at Farmers
  They had no time to lose,
A band approached the engineer
  And bid him not to move.

They stepped up to the prisoner
  With pistols in their hands--
In death he soon was sinking,
  He died in iron bands.
His wife soon heard the horrid sound,
  She was in another car.
She cried "Oh Lord! they've killed him!"
  When she heard the pistol fire.

The death of these two men have caused
  Great troubles in our land
Caused men to leave their families
  And take the parting hand
Retaliating, still at war,
  They may never, ever cease;
I would that I could only see
  Our land once more in peace.

They killed the deputy sheriff,
  Bumgardner was his name,
They shot him from the bushes,
  After taking deliberate aim.
The death of him was dreadful,
  It may never be forgot--
His body pierced and torn
  With thirty-three buckshot.

I compose this as a warning--
  Oh! beware, young men!--
Your pistols will cause trouble,
  On this you may depend.
In the bottom of a whiskey glass
  A lurking devil dwells,
Burns the breasts of those who drink it,
  And sends their souls to Hell.