| On the 29th day of one November morning
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| When the cloud was hangin' low
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| 97 pulled out from Washington city
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| Like an arrow shot from the bow
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| 97 was the fastest mail train
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| The South had ever seen
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| And it run from New York by the way of Washington
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| Through Atlanta down in New Orlean (sic)
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| I was standing on the mount one cold and frosty morning
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| Watching the smoke from below
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| That were comin' from the funnel of that black and dusty engine
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| Way down up on that Southern road
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| It was 97, the fastest mail train
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| That run the Southern line
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| And when she pulled in, at Lynchburg, Virginia
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| She was forty-seven minutes behind
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| Steve Brady, he was an engineerah (sic)
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| And a very brave man was he
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| Well, there’re many good men have lost their life
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| For the railroad company
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| When they give him his orders at Monroe, Virginia
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| Said, «Steve, you’s way behind
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| This is not 38, but it’s old 97, You must put her in Spencer on time.»
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| Steve, he smiled when he said to his black and dusty fireman
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| «Throw me in a little more coal
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| And as soon as we cross this White Oak Mountain
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| You can watch my driver roll.»
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| It was mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville
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| The line on a 3-mile grade
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| It were on that hill where he lost his average
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| You can see what a jump he made
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| Steve come down that hill makin' 90 miles an hour
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| His whistle began to scream
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| Steve was found in the wreck with his hand upon the throttle
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| And scalded to death by the steam
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| Steve, he had a little wife and also two children
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| Who were lyin' at home in bed
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| They received the sad message saying, «Husband and father
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| Now’m is lyin' in North Danville, dead.»
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| Now, ladies, you ought to let this be a warning
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| This, from now and on
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| Never speak hard words to your true lovin' husband
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| They may leave you and never return |