Old 97

On a cold frosty morning in the month of September
When the clouds were a hanging so low,
Ninety-seven pulled out of the Washington station
Like an arrow that’s shot from a bow.
Oh, they handed him orders at Monroe, Virginia,
Saying: «Steve, you’re way behind time.
This is not 38, but it’s Old 97
You must get her to Spencer on time.
So, he looked round the cab at his black greasy fireman,
Saying «Shovel a little more coal,
And when we get across that White Oak Mountain
You can watch Old 97 roll.»
This is not 38, this is Old 97
Old 97's comin' down the line
She is so old, she may never make it
But she’s got to get to Spencer on time
It’s a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville
And the line’s on a three mile grade.
It was there on that grade that he lost his air brakes
And you see what a bad, bad jump he made.
He was going downhill at ninety miles an hour
When the whistle it broke into a scream
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle
And scalded to death with the steam.
Now you ladies take warning: better watch what you say
Never speak harsh words to your man
He might leave you this morning to travel the rails
But he may never return home again
This is not 38, this is Old 97
Old 97's comin' down the line
She is so old, she may never make it
But she’s got to get to Spencer on time
She’s got to get to Spencer on time
She’s got to get to Spencer on time