The Rounder’s Curse never applied to Casey Jones.
The song written after his death called Casey Jones a rounder.
Mrs. Jones said it wasn’t true, her husband was a family man…
He was mean, crass and coarse,
a rogue and a rounder too.
A real, old-time railroad man,
rough and ready through and through.
Drank that rot-gut whiskey
and tried to duck the blame
if anything went wrong or bad
on his mainline railroad train.
Had a wife in down in Bayaud,
one more in Kalacaroo,
he claimed he’d forgot about,
maybe, one or two.
Had kids by the dozen,
didn’t know a one by name,
he claimed there wasn’t one of them
a railroad man could claim.
He was a bad old rounder
didn’t have no shame.
Drank whiskey just for fun of it,
not to kill his pain.
He tooted on the whistle
and rang upon the bell
he ran his locomotive
like a bat straight out of Hell!
Walkin’ down the street one night,
Full Moon in Shanty Town,
a dignified old colored woman
looked him up and down.
She said, “ I am Auntie Susa
and I’m a old swamp witch.
You sir! Are a rounder
and a miserable son-of-a-bitch!”
She pointed a bony finger,
Said, “Mark my words, heed my call!
The very next bridge you try to cross
you’re bound to take a fall!
You’ve cast your last bad seed,
no more the rails you’ll roam,
The Devil is your master,
he’s about to call you home!
He was bad old rounder
didn’t have no shame.
Drank whiskey just for fun of it,
not to kill his pain.
He tooted on the whistle
and rang upon the bell
he ran his locomotive
like a bat straight out of Hell!
He didn’t say a single word.
He just stared down at his feet.
When he looked back up again,
he was alone upon the street.
He walked back to the station
got his orders from the box,
read ‘em in the waiting room
standin’ underneath the clocks.
When he heard that inbound whistle,
he was feelin’ no more pain.
He climbed up to the footplate
as it began to rain.
Twenty miles of straight-away,
to the big curve ‘round Blacktop Ridge,
then, three miles of heavy downgrade
to approach the Mud Creek bridge.
It was rain meant for Noah,
he could hear the thunder crash.
The headlight was lost in darkness,
yet in the lightening flash;
he could see the swollen waters
he could see the dangling rail,
he could see the broken timbers,
he knew the bridge would surely fail!
He called out to his fireman,
“Jump from this sin cursed train,
for Hell’s the final station
if here you long remain!”
The fireman cleared the tender
and rolled roughly off the ties
the sanders were a blastin’,
the doomed engine heave’n fearful sighs.
He was bad old rounder
didn’t have no shame.
Drank whiskey just for fun of it
not to kill his pain.
He tooted on the whistle
and rang upon the bell
he ran his locomotive
like a bat on the way to Hell!
“Devil, I’m a comin’ to ya,”
he shouted loud and clear!
He pulled the throttle open wide,
he was grinnin’ ear to ear.
The bell was clanging madly
the whistle reached a scream,
the firebox door slammed open
to add Hell’s light to the final scene.
The fireman fetched up in some bushes
crowned with muck and mud,
wiped his eyes to take in the scene
and hoped it wasn’t blood.
The lightning flashed and sparkled
across the fireman’s face,
the engine leaped off the bridge
to hang out there in space…
He was bad old rounder
didn’t have no shame.
Drank whiskey just for fun of it
not to kill his pain.
He tooted on the whistle
and rang upon the bell,
ran full throttle off the Mud Creek bridge
and roared straight into Hell!
This is actually the Wreck of Old 97
at Danville, VA (09/27/1903)
But you get the idea…
Return to Index
end: The Rounders Curse