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Duffy said the pay was good, working on the line
Eighteen hundred thirty two, mile fifty nine
From scattered bones the old tree grows
Scattered bones all that remain
Fifty seven lie in silence for the passing of a train.
They came to build the railroad
They came to cut the stone
Get a job, a decent meal, send some money home
From the old stone walls of Derry
From the peatlands of Tyrone
To Duffy's Cut Pennsylvania, with brother, friend, alone
Don't leave my bones to linger in a shallow unmarked grave
But take me home where I belong And let my soul be saved
Might have been the cholera,
Might have been the alcohol
Maybe was the bosses' vigilantes come to call
No prayers for dead and dying
No prayers to ease their pain
Just stories whispered through the years,
ghost dancing 'round the flames