Riding on an eastbound freight train, speeding through the night,
Hobo Bill, the railroad bum, was a-fighting for his life.
As the train sped through the darkness, with raging storm outside,
Hobo Bill, the railroad bum, was taking his last ride.
The sadness of his eyes revealed the torture of his soul,
As he raised a weak and weary hand to brush away the cold.
Outside the rain was a-pouring on that lonely boxcar door,
And the little form of Hobo Bill lay still upon the floor.
He heard the whistle blowing in a dreamy sort of way,
The hobo seemed contented, for he smiled there where he lay.
It was early in the morning when they raised the hobo's head,
And the smile still lingered on his face, but Hobo Bill was dead.
There was no mother's longing to think of his weary soul,
He was nothing but a railroad bum who died out in the cold.