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(learned from my brother Herm Fitz who learned it from Barry Olivier)

(music to go here)

Ridin' on an eastbound freight train, speeding through the night,
Hobo Bill, the railroad bum, was fightin' for his life.
The sadness of his eyes reveal the torture of his soul,
He raised a weak and weary hand to brush away the cold,
    Sing, Ho - -, bo - -, Billy!

No warm lights flickered 'round him, no blankets there to folk,
Nothing but the howling wind and driving rain so cold.
When he heard the whistle blowin' in a dreamy kind of way,
The hobo seemed contented, for he smiled there where he lay.
    Sing, Ho - -, bo - -, Billy!

Outside the rain was falling, on that lonely boxcar door,
But the little form of Hobo Bill lay still upon the floor.
While the train sped through the dark and the raging storm outside,
No one knew that Hobo Bill was takin' his last ride.
    Sing, Ho - -, bo - -, Billy!

It was early in the morning when they raised the hobo's head,
The smile still lingered on his face, but Hobo Bill was dead.
There was no mother's longing to soothe his weary soul,
For he was just a railroad bum who died out in the cold.
    Sing, Ho - -, bo - -, Billy!

(from miriam berg's folksong collection)