There's a house on a hill. By a worn down weathered old mill. In the valley below where the river winds. There's no such thing as bad times. And a soft southern flame.
Pickin' up the pieces of my sweet shattered dream. I wonder how the old folks are tonight. Her name was Ann and I'll be damned if I recall her face. She left me not knowin' what to do.
There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run. When the wild majestic mountains stood alone against the sun. Long before the white man and long before the wheel.