. E . . . . . . . . . . . . Am . . . . . . . . . . . . . D . . . . . . . . . . . . . G
You ride in comfort in your coach from New York to the West.
. E . . . . . . . . . . . . . Am . . . .. . . . . . . . . D . . . . . . . . . . . G
You see us standing by the tracks as you button up your vest.
C . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E . . . . . . . . . . . . C . . . . . . . . . . . E
We're tired and we're hungry but we've got six hours to go,
C . . . . . . . . . . . . . G . . . . . . . F . . . . . . . . . . . . D
Of laying track and roadbed before our day is through.
You call us gandy dancers and many other names,
And when the track's not
laid in time, we're the ones you blame.
The straw boss says the man on top is
gonna dock our pay
If we don't get at least three miles of new track laid
today.
CHO:
Your lady rides beside you while ours stay home to pray.
We send them
money when we can, what we don't drink from our pay.
There's diamond rings
upon your hands; they sure don't look like ours:
Missing fingers, broken
bones, our bodies filled with scars.
CHO:
The gandy dancer's gone, my friend, into the mists of time.
We'll sing to
him, we'll toast to him, in poetry and rhyme.
And when you face the final
judge and he's waiting for your answer,
You'll be fortunate if you can say,
CHO: