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When the moon carves a trail down the pine-bearded hills |
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And a ghost-wind hollers to the early morn |
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And the starlings return to the old sugar mill |
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Stealing their corn from the grower's field |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
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When we've covered our hands in the bone-white clay |
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And we've shaken the dust from every boot and spur |
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We have counted our days in planks and rails |
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We have kept our spirits in the dancing halls |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
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When a cold corner stage in the back of the room |
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Holds a house band carrying an orphan tune |
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I would swing, I would sway, I would pull my hips |
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To the sad chorus playing on the overheads |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
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Still to this day |
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I can hear the whistle blow |
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I can smell the sage burn |
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I may be as old and stubborn as a pine |
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But I am just as wild as the young |
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When a ribbon is curved round the blue-shadowed hills |
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And the hot steel is humming down the Union Line |
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Whip-thin, hickory-black, tap-tapping |
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Our sad-faced chatter into rhythm and rhyme |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
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Oh, I'll be no more |
