| Standing on the sidetrack at the south end of town
|
| On a dry, hot, dusty August day the steam pipe pouring down
|
| The fireman with his long oil can oiling the old valve gears
|
| Waiting for the fast mail train to semaphore to clear
|
| The engineer in the old high cab, his gold watch in his hand
|
| Looking at the water glass and letting down the sand
|
| Rolling out on the old main line taking up the slack
|
| Gone today so they say but tomorrow he’ll be back
|
| Oh, if I could return to those boyhood days of mine
|
| And the greenlight on the southern, southern railroad line
|
| Creeping down the rusty rails of the weed grown branch line
|
| The section houses gray and white by the yard limit sign
|
| The hoggers call the old high ball, no more time to wait
|
| Rolling down to Birmingham with a ten car load for freight
|
| Oh, if I could return to those boyhood days of mine
|
| And the greenlight on the southern, southern railroad line
|
| The whistle scream with a hiss of steam, the headlight gleams clear
|
| The drivers roll on the green and go getting mighty near
|
| Handing up the orders to the engine crew on time
|
| It’s the Alabama great southern AGS railroad line
|
| Oh, if I could return to those boyhood days of mine
|
| And that greenlight on the southern, southern railroad line
|
| Oh, if I could return to those boyhood days of mine
|
| And that greenlight on the southern, southern railroad line |