At twenty K, eight-seventy
The snow began to fall
It hid the rails, the trees, the ties
We couldn't see damn all
The conductor stood on the cowcatcher
With a lantern in his hand
To try and light the weary climb,
And the lay of the weary land
He was cold to the bone, and sore and mad,
Staring out, and cussing blind,
As we cut the blizzard toward the sky
On the road to twenty, nine.

Oh it's hard hard steel on a long slow hill,
Through a long hard winter's night
The boilers threatening to freeze
And the lanterns losing light;
And the rods grind slow, as around they go,
Driving one turn at a time,
And the pistons mourn, and the drive-wheel turns,
Through the night toward twenty, nine.