Well I came to Chicage in 1869.
And I took me a place in Connely's patch.
Started on the railroad working the UP line and
walking those endless miles of track.
Laying down those crossties and banging on the steel
in the cold wind and rain.
From Palmer House, down to Marshall Fields,
oh every day was just the same.
But at the end of the day,
we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
Then we'd make our way
down to the bars on Whiskey Row.
Over in the stockyards the packers are winding down,
they're all waiting for the closing sign.
They'll rush the front gates they'll storm the town,
and we'll take their seats upon the line.
With their glasses on the counter, their feet upon the rail.
a friendly smile and hello.
All the laughing getting louder with every passing tale,
those golden days on Whiskey Row.
And at the end of the day,
we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
Then we'd make our way
down to the bars on Whiskey Row.
Now Palmer House has fallen.
The cars are off the tracks,
and there ain't no more of Courthouse Square.
Nothing is left standing over at Connelys Patch
since that mighty fire tore through there.
Oh, but some day soon she'll rise up to the sky,
Over the rivers, flames and smoke.
And she'll keep a lookout with a mothers eye,
over her boys on Whiskey Row,
At the end of the day,
we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
Then we'd make our way
down to the bars on Whiskey Row.