Dulcimer

I'm headin' out of New York town on some old number nine. Up north the Hudson's wild and the sun begins to shine. High noon, high tide, six string partner by my side. I don't think I ever had a better ride. Or at least I can't recall one. Two wholesome lookin' ladies two rows back behind, A pickin' on a dulcimer and the sound is soft and fine. Business man, Dapper Dan, grandpa with his tired old hands. He has done the best he can and we all must do the same. And the music from the dulcimer is a sad and simple strain, And somewhere in my soul I know that God is on this train. I guess I should be somewhere else but where I just don't know Where the women dance and sing, and where the softer breezes blow. Where the grass is always green and the old folks don't grow old. But for now I'll ride and bide my time down here below. And a sweet, sweet voice is singing, and as I strain to hear, The music from the dulcimer is washin' down like beer. The world of man sits and stands right here before my eyes. I see a young man warrior bound and I hear a young girl's sighs And I see a couple lost in love and the old conductor stands above them, Tickets please, this ride's not free, six hours to Montreal.