This Train

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This train is bound for glory, this train. 
This train is bound for glory, this train. 
This train is bound for glory, 
Don't carry nothing but the righteous and the holy. 
This train is bound for glory, this train.

This train don't carry no gamblers, this train; 
This train don't carry no gamblers, this train; 
This train don't carry no gamblers, 
Liars, thieves, nor big shot ramblers, 
This train is bound for glory, this train.

This train don't carry no liars, this train; 
This train don't carry no liars, this train; 
This train don't carry no liars, 
She's streamlined and a midnight flyer, 
This train don't carry no liars, this train.

This train don't carry no smokers, this train; 
This train don't carry no smokers, this train 
This train don't carry no smokers, 
Two bit liars, small time jokers, 
This train don't carry no smokers, this train.

This train don't carry no con men, this train; 
This train don't carry no con men, this train; 
This train don't carry no con men, 
No wheeler dealers, here and gone men, 
This train don't carry no con men, this train.

This train don't carry no rustlers, this train; 
This train don't carry no rustlers, this train; 
This train don't carry no rustlers, 
Sidestreet walkers, two bit hustlers, 
This train is bound for glory, this train.

 

 

The Wabash Cannonball

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From the great Atlantic Ocean to the wide Pacific shore

from the green and flowing mountains to the south belt by the shore

she's mighty tall and handsome, and known quite well by all

she's the combination on the Wabash Cannonball

 

She came down from Birmingham, one cold December day

as she rolled into the station, you could hear all the people say

there's a girl from Tennessee, she's long and she's tall

she came down from Birmingham on the Wabash Cannonball

 

Our the Eastern states are dandy so the people always say

from New York to St. Louis and Chicago by the way

from the hills of Minnesota where the rippling waters fall

no changes can be taken on that Wabash Cannonball

 

Here's to daddy Claxton, may his name forever stand

and always be remembered 'round the courts of Alabam'

his earthly race is over and the curtains 'round him fall

we'll carry him home to victory on the Wabash Cannonball

 

Listen to the jingle, the rumble and the roar

as she glides along the woodland, through the hills and by the shore

hear the mighty rush of the engine, hear that lonesome hobo squall

you're travelling through the jungles on the Wabash Cannonball

The Streets of Laredo

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As I walked out on the streets of Laredo.

As I walked out on Laredo one day,

I spied a poor cowboy wrapped in white linen,

Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay.

 

I can see by your outfit that you are a cowboy

These words he did say as I boldly walked by.

Come an' sit down beside me an' hear my sad story.

I'm shot in the breast an' I know I must die.

 

It was once in the saddle, I used to go dashing.

Once in the saddle, I used to go gay.

First to the card-house and then down to Rose's.

But I'm shot in the breast and I'm dying today.

 

Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin.

Six dance-hall maidens to bear up my pall.

Throw bunches of roses all over my coffin.

Roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

 

Then beat the drum slowly, play the Fife lowly.

Play the dead march as you carry me along.

Take me to the green valley, lay the sod o'er me,

I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

 

Then go write a letter to my grey-haired mother,

An' tell her the cowboy that she loved has gone.

But please not one word of the man who had killed me.

Don't mention his name and his name will pass on.

 

When thus he had spoken, the hot sun was setting.

The streets of Laredo grew cold as the clay.

We took the young cowboy down to the green valley,

And there stands his marker, we made, to this day.

 

We beat the drum slowly and played the Fife lowly,

Played the dead march as we carried him along.

Down in the green valley, laid the sod o'er him.

He was a young cowboy and he said he'd done wrong.

I think I would rather be dead

 

 

So I walk where I will over mountain and hill

And I lie where the bracken is deep

I belong to the mountains, the clear-running fountains

Where the grey rocks rise rugged and steep

I've seen the white hare in the gulley

And the curlew fly high over head

And sooner than part from the mountains

I think I would rather be dead

 

The Rose of Tralee

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The pale moon was rising above the green mountain
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea
When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain
That stands in beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet, 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no! 'Twas the the truth in her eye ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
The cool shades of evening their mantle were spreading
And Mary all smiling was listening to me
The moon through the valley her pale rays was shedding
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tralee.
Though lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet, 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no! 'Twas the the truth in her eye ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.