The wreck of the old 97

On the 29th day of one November morning
When the cloud was hangin' low
97 pulled out from Washington city
Like an arrow shot from the bow

97 was the fastest mail train
The South had ever seen
And it run from New York by the way of Washington
Through Atlanta down in New Orlean (sic)

I was standing on the mount one cold and frosty morning
Watching the smoke from below
That were comin' from the funnel of that black and dusty engine
Way down up on that Southern road

It was 97, the fastest mail train
That run the Southern line
And when she pulled in, at Lynchburg, Virginia
She was forty-seven minutes behind

Steve Brady, he was an engineerah (sic)
And a very brave man was he
Well, there're many good men have lost their life
For the railroad company

When they give him his orders at Monroe, Virginia
Said, "Steve, you's way behind.
This is not 38, but it's old 97, You must put her in Spencer on time."

Steve, he smiled when he said to his black and dusty fireman
"Throw me in a little more coal
And as soon as we cross this White Oak Mountain
You can watch my driver roll."

It was mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville
The line on a 3-mile grade
It were on that hill where he lost his average
You can see what a jump he made

Steve come down that hill makin' 90 miles an hour
His whistle began to scream
Steve was found in the wreck with his hand upon the throttle
And scalded to death by the steam

Steve, he had a little wife and also two children
Who were lyin' at home in bed
They received the sad message saying, "Husband and father
Now'm is lyin' in North Danville, dead."

Now, ladies, you ought to let this be a warning
This, from now and on
Never speak hard words to your true lovin' husband
They may leave you and never return