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One dark and stormy night while riding down the line; |
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Railroad Bill, the engineer said, "Boy, we'll have to fly!" |
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We've got to be on time, to meet old Number Four. |
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So sling the coal, we'll make it, boy, or never ride no more. |
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While in the rear boxcar, a lonely hobo lay, |
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Heading for his mother dear, who on her death-bed lay; |
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He raised a weary hand, to brush away a tear, |
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Not knowing his last drive was run, and Fate was drawing near. |
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When through the darkened night, a headlight bright did gleam, |
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O'er the roar of rolling wheels, a whistle load did scream; |
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As down around the curve, the mighty train did roar, |
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With black smoke rolling from the stack, came Flyer Number Four. |
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Then came an awful crash! Their last long drive was run, |
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On the track the hobo lay, his days of life were done; |
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And as the golden sun, sank slowly to the west, |
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His dear old mother gently smiled, and closed her eyes in death. |