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 SONGS OF THE RAIL 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON, 
 
 (' SURFACEMAN ') 
 
 author of 
 
 'a song of labour,' 'the two angels,' 
 
 ' ballads and sonnets,' etc. 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 
 EDINBURGH & GLASGOW : JOHN MENZIES & CO. 
 
 l88i
 
 LONDON 
 
 M'CORQUODALE & CO. 
 
 Cardington Street 
 
 N.W.
 
 HOCl 
 
 2DeDicateti 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FELLOW-WORKERS 
 
 ON 
 
 THE RAILWAY 
 
 775451
 
 PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 Some critics, in " reviewing " a former work of mine, 
 took exception to the railway poems it contained, 
 as being exaggerated in incident and over-drawn in 
 treatment. In reply to these criticisms, I beg to 
 remark that nearly all my railway poems are founded 
 upon facts, and not a few of them upon incidents 
 that have taken place upon a line on which I work. 
 There are others founded upon accounts of railway 
 accidents, seen in glancing over the papers in my 
 leisure hours ; while others, again, have for basis com- 
 munications made to me by railway men with whom 
 I came into contact in my daily work. I will frankly 
 admit, however, to having taken advantage now and 
 then — although in a very slight degree — of -the
 
 6 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 license usually allowed to verse-writers of altering 
 details in order to create a more complete whole. 
 
 One word more. I send out this volume, like 
 former ones, in the hope that it may interest my 
 fellow-workers on the railway, and heighten to some 
 degree their pride in the service, however humble 
 may be their position. I trust that its perusal may 
 lead the engine-driver, among others, to look upon 
 his " iron horse " as the embodiment of a force as 
 noble as gigantic — a force which has opened up for 
 commerce and industry a thousand paths that other- 
 wise would have remained undiscovered : a power 
 destined, beyond doubt, to be one of the civilisers 
 
 of the world. 
 
 A. A.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To MY Readers, 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 A Song of Labour, 
 
 
 / 
 
 
 13 
 
 Blood on the Wheel, 
 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 A Song for my Fellows, 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 The Engine, 
 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 City and Village, 
 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 Behind Time, 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 56 
 
 The First Foot, . 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 Rid of his Engine, 
 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 Jim's Whistle, 
 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 Move Upward, 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 Song of the Engine, 
 
 
 
 
 74 
 
 On the Engine by Night, 
 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 A Song of Progress, 
 
 
 
 
 • 83 
 
 The First Break, 
 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 In the Vanguard, . 
 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 Bill's Length, 
 
 
 
 
 98 
 
 The Spirit of the Times, 
 
 
 
 
 1 00 
 
 On the Engine Again, 
 
 
 
 
 105
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 NOTTMAN, .... 
 
 
 
 no 
 
 Duncan Weir, 
 
 
 
 114 
 
 The Brown Giant, 
 
 
 
 117 
 
 Railway Dreamings, 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 The Gods and the Winds, 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 Stood at Clear, . 
 
 
 
 130 
 
 Old Wylie's Stone, 
 
 
 
 132 
 
 The Cuckoo, 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 The Dead Lark, . 
 
 
 
 138 
 
 Jim Dalley, 
 
 
 
 141 
 
 What the Engine says, . 
 
 
 
 146 
 
 The Wires, 
 
 
 
 151 
 
 Bob Cruikshanks, 
 
 
 
 • ^5S 
 
 The Violet, . > . 
 
 
 
 159 
 
 Finis, . . . . . 
 
 
 
 162
 
 TO 
 
 MY READERS. 
 
 A WORKER on the rail, where, day by day, 
 
 The engine storms along. 
 And sends forth, as he thunders on his way. 
 
 Wild strains of eagle song. 
 
 Or toiling on with heavy pant and strain, 
 
 As if within his breast 
 A god, bound by some splendid doom to pain, 
 
 Lies in his wild unrest ; 
 
 And struggles like Enceladus, until. 
 
 Through all his shining length, 
 Each fire-fed sinew answers with a thrill. 
 
 And shakes and gleams with strength. 
 
 Then the wild vigour, shooting to its point 
 
 Of madness, fills each limb 
 That strides with one great sweep from joint to joint 
 
 Of rails, that under him
 
 lo SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Bend, as they feel his sudden certain grasp, 
 
 Or quiver as he reels, 
 And slips and slides with sullen grind and rasp 
 
 Of sternly-rolling wheels. 
 
 Or in the night, when darkness, like a veil. 
 
 Curtains the sleep of earth. 
 He flares along the pathway of the rail 
 
 Like a Titanic birth 
 
 Of some great monster from whose throat, as when 
 
 A new volcano wars, 
 A million sparks of fire burst up, and then 
 
 Fall down Hke mimic stars : 
 
 As with unwinking eye of glowing white 
 
 He tears the night apart. 
 And with broad spears of ^palpitating light 
 
 (The lightnings of his heart), 
 
 He shears the midnight with its shadowy shrouds. 
 
 Till every breath and pant 
 Mirrors and paints itself against the clouds. 
 
 Like northern lights aslant. 
 
 'o' 
 
 And swift as thoughts fling arches over space 
 In some worn giant's dream,
 
 TO MY READERS. u 
 
 He rushes, crow-n'd with flame, upon his race. 
 The god of fire and steam ! 
 
 Nay, when far out among the hills I lie 
 
 Beside the moorland streams, 
 Hearing them whisper forth with lulling sigh 
 
 Their little hopes and dreams : 
 
 He follows still, and from the distant bound, 
 
 His whistle echoes shrill, 
 Lapping with an invisible wave of sound 
 
 Each rift and shore of hill ; 
 
 Or in the city, when I pace the street, 
 
 At one with all my kind, 
 Dreaming I hear in all the tramp of feet 
 
 The steady march of mind. 
 
 Moving to silent battles still unfought, 
 
 And seeing far on high 
 Standards, which truth with her own hands has wrought 
 
 For men to guard or die. 
 
 And hearing the firm tramp of peoples strong 
 
 In the high rights of man, 
 I move, as if one of the fearless throng, 
 
 A footstep from the van.
 
 12 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Till, worthy climax to my dreams, the black 
 
 Wild monster rushes on, 
 Along great arches that uprear their back, 
 
 Like Atlases of stone. 
 
 And linking surging street to street, he seems 
 
 Aglow with dusky scorn, 
 The swart apostle preaching wondrous dreams 
 
 Of days and years unborn. 
 
 For with him, like a prophecy that raves 
 Of some wild fruitful deed. 
 
 Go the great energies that kneel like slaves 
 Wherever jiien have need. 
 
 What marvel, then, that seeing, day by day. 
 
 The engine rush along, 
 That I send you, from out the " four-feet way," 
 
 This book of railway song.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-WORKERS 
 WITH PICK AND SHOVEL EVERYWHERE. 
 
 Let each man honour his workmanship — his Can-do." — Carlyle. 
 
 Let us sing, my toiling Brothers, with our rough, rude voice 
 
 a song 
 
 That shall live behind, nor do us in the after ages wrong, 
 But forever throb and whisper strength to nerve our fellow 
 
 kind 
 As they rise to fill our footsteps and the space we leave 
 
 behind. 
 What though hand and form be rugged ? better then for 
 
 Labour's mart — 
 I have never heard that Nature changed the colour of the 
 
 heart — 
 For the God above hath made us one in flesh and blood 
 
 with kings,
 
 14 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 But the lower use is ours, and all the force of rougher things. 
 Then, my Brothers, sing to Labour, as the sun-brown'd 
 
 giant stands 
 Like an Atlas with this planet shaking in his mighty hands ; 
 Brawny arm'd, and broad, and swarthy, keeping in with 
 
 shout and groan, 
 In the arch of life the keystone, that the world may thunder 
 
 on ; 
 Ever toiling, ever sweating, ever knowing that to-day 
 Is the footstool for the coming years to reach a higher sway. 
 Up, then, we, his rugged children, as the big hours move 
 
 and pant, 
 For that cannot be but noble what he claims and cannot 
 
 want : 
 Sing, and let his myriad voices bear the burden far along, 
 While we hail the mighty engine as the spirit of our song ! 
 
 Arm to arm, and let the metals into proper range be thrown, 
 Let us smooth the iron pathway to the monster coming on. 
 Lo ! he dawns adown the distance, and his iron footway 
 
 rings 
 As he bounds, a wander'd meteor, muffled up in smoky 
 
 wings — 
 Earth beneath his mighty footsteps trembles at the sudden 
 
 load. 
 As of old the flood Scamander at the falling of the irod.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 15 
 
 Give him freedom, strength he needs not, only space and 
 
 bound to fly, 
 As at niglit, in starry silence, glides a planet through the 
 
 sky — 
 Thus he comes, the earth-born splendour, and with sudden 
 
 shriek and gasp 
 On he flames, the Jove of Commerce, with the lightnings in 
 
 his grasp, 
 O, my Brothers, this is something, in the fret and rush of 
 
 days. 
 Worthy of our love and wonder, and the throbbing out of 
 
 praise ; 
 Then another wilder psean for this march of thought and 
 
 mind. 
 Some ecstatic dithyrambus that shall deify our kind. 
 
 Arm to arm, and let the metals into proper range be thrown, 
 Let us shape the iron pathway for the monster coming on ; 
 Make his footing sure and steady, fitting for a thing like 
 
 him, 
 Rolling out his seven-leagued paces smoother than a bird 
 
 can skim ; 
 Welding city unto city, and as with strong withes of steel 
 Drawing traffic into method, till his muscles shake and reel ; 
 Stretching out, Briareus-hke, a hundred arms of sudden 
 
 stroke.
 
 1 6 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Rolling upward to the darken'd heavens Python-coils of 
 
 smoke ; 
 Touching, like the gods of fable, all things into noble strife, 
 As before the heated sculptor flash'd the statue into life. 
 O, what strength shall be his portion in the coming reach 
 
 of time, 
 When his sinews swell and ripen into firm and perfect prime, 
 He shall be the tireless monster that like Gulliver shall lead 
 Busy peoples to each other only with an iron thread. 
 
 Heart ! but this grand world rolls onward through the 
 shadows of the years, 
 
 Swift as fell the reckless Phseton headlong through the 
 startled spheres ; 
 
 And along with it we wrestle, shaping bounds we slowly reach. 
 
 For this knowledge is a master whose first aim is to unteach. 
 
 So, he moves with time and patience, working with a care- 
 ful heed, 
 
 Growing more and more in earnest when he moulds the 
 perfect deed ; 
 
 Therefore guide him well, and listen to his slightest spoken 
 word. 
 
 For a simple note will sometimes lead us to a fuller chord ; 
 
 And the finish'd triumph with us shall a hundredfold repay 
 
 All the toil, and search, and panting for the source of purer 
 day.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 17 
 
 " But," says one, who still will murmur in the camp of 
 
 brotherhood, 
 " Progress comes with tardy footsteps, and can do the 
 
 grave no good." 
 There but spoke the Cynic, Brothers, curbing down with 
 
 strongest steel 
 All the width of human purpose, all that brain can do and 
 
 feel ; 
 Scorning ever outward action, but to wrap himself in toils 
 Spun to catch the things that wither, spun to catch the 
 
 dust that soils. 
 Shame on such ! they are not worthy of the common breath 
 
 they draw, 
 Since with it they make existence wither to a narrow law. 
 Wider range and freer action, nobler maxims for my breath ; 
 I would wish my fellows success from the very jaws of 
 
 death : 
 Death ! a moment's cunning darkness flung across the 
 
 trembling eyes 
 As we flash into the spirit cradled in a wild surprise. 
 Then what motions come upon us, golden laws of sudden 
 
 calm. 
 Raining down eternal silence, raining down eternal balm. 
 Dare I fix my vision further, deeming that we mould this 
 
 mind, 
 But to look in steady splendour on the toiling of our kind ?
 
 i8 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Heart ! but this were something nobler than the poet ever 
 
 felt 
 When the fought-for happy laurel clasp'd his forehead like 
 
 a belt ; 
 When the liquid fire of genius, rainbow colour'd, flash'd and 
 
 glow'd 
 All its mighty beams above him with the splendour of a god, 
 Wider in its stretch and grandeur than the brain could ever 
 
 dream 
 To look down upon our fellows from some planet's Winding 
 
 gleam, 
 Watching with seraphic vision, grasping with delighted soul. 
 All the goals to which they hurry as the moments shake and 
 
 roll, 
 Linking with an unseen quickness vigour to the tasks they do, 
 Touching each with fresher impulse as a nobler comes in 
 
 view. 
 Then when triumph crowns their striving, start to hear the 
 
 heaven sublime 
 Fill its azure arch with plaudits echoing from the throat of 
 
 time ; 
 And to hear the poets singing far above the rush of feet 
 Epithalamiums of madness when the links of success meet. 
 This is frenzy, and the overstretching of unhealtliy strings, 
 Let us touch a chord that trembles to the breath of higher 
 
 things.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 19 
 
 Rash in him who sings unworthy, looking not within his 
 
 heart 
 For the counsel that should guide him to the honours of his 
 
 art. 
 "Sing you thus?" I hear you question, and I answer you 
 
 again, 
 I but fit me to that measure chance flings' blindly down on 
 
 men, 
 Which requires nor heart nor passion, but the will that 
 
 makes a voice — 
 ]\Iighty poets sing by impulse, and the lesser but by choice. 
 "Yet you claim the meed of poet?" and I answer firm and 
 
 strong. 
 Count me only as a poet, Brothers, while I sing this song. 
 
 Arm to arm, and let the metals into proper range be thrown, 
 Let us shape the iron pathway for the monster coming on. 
 What though we be feeble puppets with a little vigour 
 
 crown'd. 
 Yet this task is ours, to fence his footsteps into proper 
 
 bound ; 
 Therefore guide him well, nor tamper with the thread that 
 
 leads his powers, 
 Since the splendour of his mission flings a dignity on ours. 
 
 As the silent sage at midnight shapes his cunning thoughts 
 to smooth
 
 20 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Pathways through the world's wild jungles for the steady 
 
 tramp of truth ; 
 As the pioneer that fells the sounding forest tree by tree, 
 With a mighty thought that trembles to the settlement to be; 
 As the sentinel who slowly paces as the night hours fly, 
 With the lives of sleeping thousands hanging on his watch- 
 ful eye ; 
 As upon the field of Sempach in the bleeding Switzer's breast 
 Freedom found her purple dwelling, giving to a nation rest ; 
 As the coral insect toiling in the ocean's mighty vast 
 Rears a giant's labour upward through the swaying surge at 
 
 last ; 
 So the specks that dot existence, seeming blind and aimless 
 
 still. 
 Knit in one, are levers waiting for the touch of thought 
 
 and will. 
 Thus are we but toiling units, rough at heart and brown in 
 
 face, 
 Noble only being useful, helpful in a humble place ; 
 Filling up the ruts existence furrows with his heavy wain. 
 That the richer hearts behind may start and sow the 
 
 fruitful grain ; 
 For we clothe with rougher muscle circles of a mighty whole, 
 Moving at the touch of fellows with a greater breadth of soul. 
 But I crave not higher mission than to shape the ends 
 they think,
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 21 
 
 Deeming I am all but godlike in the holding of a link. 
 And this link for ever widens, as their restless spirits teach, 
 Till it forms a chain of union ringing from the heart of each ; 
 Break it and a gap arises never seen until it broke, 
 As the wires, when cut, are traitors to the sentence-breathing 
 
 shock ; 
 Heedless of such bond of union grapple we with erring mind. 
 Feeling not the mighty impulse streaming from our greater 
 
 kind, 
 Which, even as the spreading glory waiting on the dying sun. 
 Shoots along this link that binds us till we feel ourselves 
 
 as one ; 
 And we grow into their triumph as their works rise up 
 
 sublime. 
 Like a book that lies before you glowing with some poet's 
 
 rhyme ; 
 And the spirit of the minstrel, leaping distance, shoots along, 
 With a monarch's footsteps marching through the pathways 
 
 of his song. 
 
 'O' 
 
 Thus the mighty who have labour'd in the ages sunk behind 
 Knit their spirit to that purpose which they left among 
 
 their kind ; 
 And forever as the groaning Ages trample under foot 
 Hydras born of sleeping Wisdom when it pleased her to 
 
 be mute ;
 
 22 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And wherever slow Improvement wanders with a laggard's 
 
 pace — 
 Like the Cynic with his lantern roaming in the market- 
 place — 
 There their power of brain is busy, bringing with its 
 
 potent rod 
 Genii from all points of heaven, and sets them working 
 
 with a nod, 
 In the whirl and sweep of traffic, in the long and restless 
 
 street, 
 Multitudinous with its echoes ringing from a thousand feet ; 
 In the clash and clang of hammers, in the anvil's busy 
 
 sound, 
 In the belt that like a serpent whirls in hot pursuit around ; 
 In the crash of tooth and pinion slowly forming linked 
 
 rounds ; 
 In the mighty beam that labours, like a Hercules in bounds ; 
 In the slightest puff of steam that specks the ocean far 
 
 away; 
 In the sail that dips its shadow far within the lucent bay ; 
 In the furnace darting upward lurid gleams to greet the 
 
 skies, 
 Till they start at such a welcome with a flush of red surprise ; 
 In whatever rises up for myriad use with loud acclaim ; 
 In whatever sets for Progress stepping-stones to reach her 
 
 aim.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 23 
 
 But it hath a deeper meaning, and a greater strength and 
 
 skill, 
 In the clanking of the rail, and in the engine's thunder still ; 
 For the might of what our fellows can with cunning fingers 
 
 frame 
 Moves with him as on he flashes in great bursts of smoke 
 
 and flame. 
 Lo, at times as on he strides a quick and glowing frenzy- 
 steals 
 From his sinews swift as light, and from the roar and rush 
 
 of wheels, 
 Quick as when the far-off mountains shake themselves from 
 
 summer mist, 
 Or the virtue to the woman when she touch'd the hem of 
 
 Christ — 
 Filling all the soul within me with a wonder at my kind. 
 And the nerve and battle onward of this ever-restless mind. 
 In such fits and heats I wander half a step before the years, 
 Taking to myself the vision forethought sets apart for seers ; 
 And I see a healthier colour, promise of a Titan's prime, 
 And a mightier sinew working on the naked arm of Time ; 
 And behind him roars nor cannon, nor the champ of 
 
 fretting steed. 
 But the nations leaning forward ready for the swordless deed. 
 But he waves them back and questions, "Am not I the 
 
 thought and type
 
 24 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Tliat shall shake the perfect blossom, knowing when the 
 
 seed is ripe ? 
 Am I not the unseen symbol giving every moment birth, 
 Breathing with a finger resting on the iron pulse of earth, 
 Waiting till I feel a calmer action in the glowing vein. 
 And a wider stretch of bosom ere I stoop to sow the grain ?" 
 This he whispers, and forever as he shakes his restless wings 
 Silent sands within his hour-glass slip away like earthly 
 
 things. 
 But the cycles hid behind him, peering from their shadows 
 
 still. 
 Wear upon their brow a purpose which they tremble to fulfil ; 
 Then, for songs to hail their coming, lyrics from some 
 
 burning heart 
 Beating with the perfect mission, glowing with the given art. 
 Higher task is not for poets than to touch with sounding 
 
 chords 
 Gleaming Memnons of advance, and shape their whispers 
 
 into words. 
 This the task for which the laurel glitters, as upon the thorn 
 Woven webs of silky slightness swaying in the flush of morn. 
 Let him take such wreath unblushing, knowing that it is 
 
 his right, 
 But his inspiration only as he feels his given might. 
 Then, when round his brow its coolness circles with 
 
 inspiring clasp,
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 25 
 
 Let his thoughts take deeper music, wider range, and 
 
 higher grasp ; 
 Let him sing the better yearning running through our 
 
 noble strife, 
 As from bough to bough the juices creeping start the buds 
 
 to Hfe ; » 
 
 And the promise growing fuller with the rounding of each 
 
 year — 
 O, the future is a giant. We have but his shadow here ! 
 
 What though Science fills her nectar lavishly in golden cups, 
 And the earth like a Bacchante all unwitting reels and sups ; 
 She is yet a village maiden. Nature touching not her life, 
 Girt in dreams of busy childhood, knowing not the aim of 
 
 wife ; 
 Wearing simple vesture loose in fold that opens to disclose 
 Breasts that nurse a wish to blossom like the twin buds of 
 
 a rose. 
 Then what wonders will they suckle when the juices in 
 
 her blood 
 Slowly swell their balmy outline to the round of womanhood : 
 Like the gods that from Olympus stole into the arms of 
 
 earth, 
 Made their nature as a mortal's, and a monster was the birth ; 
 So the thought and might of doing, slipping into her 
 
 embrace,
 
 26 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Shall be fruitful, and a wonder help the labour of our race. 
 But from him of double semblance shall she keep the 
 
 wish'd-for prize, 
 Heeding not the shallow purpose peering out from narrow 
 
 eyes ; 
 Only he who toils and battles with an earnest broad desire 
 Shall receive her fruitful favours, and our fellows shall be 
 
 higher — 
 Higher in the nobler feelings, in the wider aims that come, 
 Pledging all their good to mankind, ever potent, ever dumb. 
 They shall ride, like one in armour, through the wastes 
 
 and fens of life. 
 Giving fight wherever error rears a lance and shield for 
 
 strife. 
 They shall usher in the primal order of a happy earth, 
 Working with their cunning only that a Good may be 
 
 the birth. 
 
 This shall Science do as earnest of her firm and matron 
 
 prime, 
 When her passion fruits are growing strong in limb to 
 
 wrestle time ; 
 They shall watch her slightest motion as she lifts her 
 
 magic wand. 
 Rush like Ariels at her sign, and roll the earth into her 
 
 hand.
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 27 
 
 Who are they that curb their vision, hfting up with finger 
 
 tips 
 Colour'd glass and watch her, crying, that she reels into 
 
 eclipse ? 
 Narrow hearts that will not widen, souls that in their shells 
 
 of clay 
 Flicker up like feeble tapers, but to pass in smoke away ; 
 Prophets that should walk this earth with all their evil 
 
 croakings wrung 
 As the shadows swept by Dante in the hell he made and 
 
 sung ; 
 Ghostly faces looking backward through the shadows thick 
 
 and vast, 
 Like Remorse upon a deathbed writhing round to view the 
 
 past. 
 Such should be their doom who torture Wisdom into selfish 
 
 deeds. 
 Deeming that the earth should wither to give space to sow 
 
 their creeds. 
 This were faith in scope and keeping with the brute's 
 
 within his den ; 
 Let them give their creeds to idiots, but the world to toiling 
 
 men : 
 What is all this flash of triumph, from our very footsteps 
 
 brought, 
 But the promise of a brighter lying yet unknown to thought — 
 Brighter in the strength to usher in the many varied use,
 
 28 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 As a single bud foreruns a thousand forming in the juice. 
 Yet we grow apace and prosper : All that hath a strength 
 
 and nerve 
 Is, like Samson taken captive, made to bow the knee and 
 
 serve ; 
 And we peer with deepest cunning into seeming useless 
 
 things, 
 Train them to a little method, and a miracle upsprings. 
 Lo, the motion of a finger trifling with a simple wire 
 Shakes the nations into whispers ere a moment can expire ; 
 And a slight and simple needle shaking in its paltry case 
 Turns the boundless stretch of ocean to a fearless dwelling- 
 place. 
 Thus we overleap those wonders kept by ever niggard Time, 
 Heirlooms of dead worlds behind him ere a blight fell on 
 
 their prime ; 
 Ah, if they could look upon us from the gloom and dust of 
 
 years. 
 Feel our mighty grasp and purpose as the goal we strive 
 
 for nears ; 
 See the very germ, yet hidden when they pass'd in death 
 
 away, 
 Growing into perfect blossom with their fellows yet in clay — 
 Think you would they turn in wonder to the calm of their 
 
 abodes, 
 Blush at all their strength, and worship those who toil'd 
 
 below as gods ?
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 29 
 
 This is but a wilder fancy creeping through our rugged song ; 
 Yet a burst of rhythmic madness cannot do our fellows wrong, 
 For in them is nerve and action, will to do and will to dare, 
 And the demons of their magic work their wonders every- 
 where. 
 Hearken ! as the world rolls onward with a slow and toiling 
 
 sound. 
 All their voices swell and mingle in triumphal hymns around. 
 Come they from the dash of paddles urging through the 
 
 spray and foam, 
 Freights of earnest bosoms outward, freights of smiling 
 
 faces home ; 
 From the lunge of pistons working scant of room to breathe 
 
 and pant, 
 Yet like slaves do all the feats their ever-cunning masters 
 
 want ; 
 From the whirring of the spindle in the hot and dusty room, 
 From the mazes of the wheel, and from the complicated 
 
 loom. 
 From the furnace belching outward molten forms at their 
 
 desire. 
 Like Enceladus upspringing through his hill of smoke and 
 
 fire : 
 Mighty sounds are these, but mightier rush with everlasting 
 
 hail 
 From the thunder of the engine and the clanking of the rail.
 
 30 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Ah ! the monster that shall mould and make the coming 
 
 cycles strong — 
 Shame on me that could desert the inspiration of my song ! 
 So, another psean, Brothers, ere the fancy sinks away, 
 Ere we take the voiceless measure ranging through our 
 
 toiling day. 
 
 Arm to arm, and lay the metals, glowing with but one 
 
 desire — 
 To do honour to the mightiest of the worshippers of fire. 
 All the great in early fable, from the mighty Anakim 
 To each thew'd and swarthy Cyclops, are as nothing unto 
 
 him. 
 Yet he seeks our aid and mutters, shaking in his sudden 
 
 wrath — 
 Give me but a hand to guide me, give me but a fitting path : 
 And he snorts and shrieks in triumph as at every bound and 
 
 rasp, 
 Like twin threads laid out in distance, all the iron meets 
 
 his grasp. 
 Dare we, then, as unto mortals, whisper fear and death to 
 
 him, 
 When such breadth of strength like lightning flashes through 
 
 his heart and limb ; 
 When, within his throbbing bosom, bound with glowing 
 
 links of fire,
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 31 
 
 Lies his wildest being panting with the thoughts that cannot 
 tire ; 
 
 And they hiss, and leap, and flicker, Hcking up with fiery- 
 breath 
 
 Strength to feed his sinews working like the flash of swords 
 beneath ? 
 
 O, I rise from out my weakness as he flares along my view, 
 
 And I deem that I am mighty in the labour others do ; 
 
 For the Frankenstein s who made him part by part and Hmb 
 by limb 
 
 Had the same soul beating in them as my own at seeing 
 him. 
 
 Arm to arm, then, lay the metals, let him roll along the 
 rods, 
 
 Like Prometheus through the heavens rushing from the 
 angry gods. 
 
 Lo ! I look into the ages that in spirit we may see 
 
 When the hand of death hath stripp'd us from this warp ot 
 action free, 
 
 And I see this monster stretching his untiring sinews still, 
 
 Keeping all his strength, but blindly giving unto men his 
 will ; 
 
 And they — Lilliputs in muscle, he not deeming them as 
 such, — 
 
 Urge his ringing footsteps onward with a paltry finger- 
 touch ;
 
 32 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And they link him unto wonders, and their triumphs still 
 
 increase 
 Till some awe-struck fellow whispers, " It were time for us 
 
 to cease." 
 But they turn and shout an answer, high rebuke in all its 
 
 tone, 
 " Shame ! and have another planet growing mightier than 
 
 our own ! 
 Out on such a craven's whisper, all unworthy of our powers. 
 And this monster toiling with us, making all his being ours. 
 Forward, then, and let us fashion wider space for his career. 
 Till the old earth reels and staggers as his sounding foot- 
 steps near." 
 Then they turn to alF their labour, shaping as their thought 
 
 will speak 
 Pathways into which he glides with iron clutch and madden'd 
 
 shriek ; 
 And forever as their success brings a wilder aim in view, 
 Flashes out by fits a wonder at the miracles they do. 
 Said we not the future's shadow only falls upon us here 
 As a cloud's upon a hill when all the rest is shining clear? 
 But to them, our larger fellows of the ages yet to be. 
 He shall rise, as gods are statured, huge of limb, and broad, 
 
 and free ; 
 And in frenzy they shall hail him, bring their trophies to 
 
 his feet,
 
 A SONG OF LABOUR. 33 
 
 Then rush on in throngs, and strive to make their wondrous 
 
 gains complete : 
 While through all their fret and hurry he, the monster of 
 
 our song. 
 Like a wild earth-bound Immortal shall in thunder flash 
 
 along, 
 Clasping all things in his vigour, as a serpent flings his coil, 
 Labour's mightiest Epic rolling through the panting heart 
 
 of Toil.
 
 34 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. 
 
 " Bless her dear little heart !" said my mate, and he 
 pointed out to me, 
 Fifty yards to the right, in the darkness, a light burning 
 steady and clear. 
 " That's her signal in answer to me, when I whistle, to let 
 me see 
 She is at her place by the window the time I am passing 
 here." 
 
 I turn'd to look at the light, and I saw the tear on his 
 cheek — 
 He was tender of heart, and I knew that his love was 
 lasting and strong — 
 But he dash'd it off with his hand, and I did not think fit 
 to speak. 
 But look'd right ahead through the dark, as we clank'd 
 and thunder'd along. 
 
 They had been at the school, the two, and had run, like a 
 single life. 
 Through the mazes of childhood up to the sweeter and 
 firmer prime,
 
 BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. 35 
 
 And often he told me, smiling, how he promised to make 
 her his wife, 
 In the rambles they had for nuts in the woods in the 
 golden autumn time. 
 
 '* I must make," he would add, " that promise good in the 
 course of a month or two ; 
 And then, when I have her safe and sound in a nook of 
 the busy town, 
 No use of us whisthng then, Joe, lad, as now we indine 
 to do, 
 For a wave of her hand, or an answering light, as we 
 thunder up and down." 
 
 Well, the marriage was settled at last, and I was to stand 
 by his side, 
 Take a part in the happy rite, and pull from his hand 
 the glove ; 
 And still as we joked between ourselves, he would say in 
 his manly pride. 
 That the very ring of the engine-wheels had something 
 in them of love. 
 
 At length we had just one run to make before the bridal 
 took place, 
 And it happen'd to be in the night, yet merry in heart 
 we went on ;
 
 36 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 But long ere he came to the house, he was turning each 
 moment his face 
 To catch the light by the window, placed as a beacon 
 for him alone. 
 
 " Now then, Joe," he said, with his hand on my arm, " keep 
 a steady look out ahead 
 While I whistle for the last time;" and he whistled 
 sharply and clear ; 
 But no light rose up at the sound ; and he look'd with 
 something like dread 
 On the white-wash'd walls of the cot, through the gloom 
 looking dull, and misty, and drear. 
 
 But lo ! as he turn'd to Avhistle again, there rose on the 
 night a scream. 
 And I rush'd to the side in time to catch the flutter of 
 something white ; 
 Then a hitch through the engine ran like a thrill, and in 
 haste he shut off the steam. 
 While, turning, we look'd at each other, our hearts 
 beating wild with affright. 
 
 The station was half a mile ahead, but an age seem'd to 
 pass away 
 Ere we came to a stand, and my mate, as a drunken 
 man will reel,
 
 BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. n 
 
 Rush'd on to the front with his lamp, but to bend and 
 come back and say, 
 In a whisper faint with its terror — " Joe, come and look 
 at this blood on the wheel." 
 
 Great heaven ! a thought went through my heart like the 
 sudden stab of a knife, 
 While the same dread thought seem'd to settle on him 
 and palsy his heart and mind, 
 For he went up the line with the haste of one who is rush- 
 ing to save a life, 
 And with the dread shadow of what was to be I foUow'd 
 closely behind. 
 
 What came next is indistinct, like the mist on the mountain 
 side — 
 Gleam of lights and awe-struck faces, but one thing can 
 never grow dim : 
 My mate, kneeling down in his grief like a child by the side 
 of his mangled bride, 
 Kill'd, with the letter still in her hand she had wish'd to 
 send to him. 
 
 Some little token was in it, perhaps to tell of her love and 
 her truth, 
 Some little love-errand to do ere the happy bridal drew 
 nighj
 
 38 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 So in haste she had taken the line, but to find, in the flush 
 of her fair sweet youth. 
 The terrible death that could only be seen with a horror 
 in heart and eye. 
 
 Speak not of human sorrow — it cannot be spoken in words ; 
 Let us veil it as God veil'd His at the sight of His Son 
 
 on the cross. 
 For who can reach to the height or the depth of those 
 
 infinite yearning chords 
 Whose tones reach the very centre of heaven when swept 
 
 by the fingers of loss ? 
 
 She sleeps by the little ivied church in which she had bow'd 
 to pray — 
 Another grave close by the side of hers, for he died of a 
 broken heart, 
 Wither'd and shrunk from that awful night like the autumn 
 leaves in decay, 
 And the two were together that death at first had shaken 
 so roughly apart. 
 
 But still, when I drive through the dark, and that night 
 comes back to my mind, 
 I can hear the shriek take the air, and beneath me fancy 
 I feel
 
 BLOOD ON THE WHEEL. 39 
 
 The engine shake and hitch on the rail, while a hollow 
 voice from behind 
 Cries out, till I leap on the footplate, "Joe, come and 
 look at this blood on the wheel !"
 
 40 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 A SONG FOR MY FELLOWS. 
 
 " Ambos Oder Hammer sein." — Goethe, 
 
 My brothers, in this great world of ours 
 
 Our hearts have need to be strong, 
 And have in them, Hke shady nooks in a wood, 
 
 A shelter for stirring song. 
 So this snatch of wisdom from Goethe in mine 
 
 Is for ever speaking to me, 
 In the battle of life, from birth unto death — 
 
 " Thou must hammer or anvil be." 
 
 Hammer or anvil, so runs the rhyme. 
 
 To beat or be beaten upon — 
 Whether you stand in the first of the ranks, 
 
 Or be left in the rear alone. 
 But shame on that coward who, faint in his heart. 
 
 Would wish to slink from the fray. 
 Or could bend himself to each turn of the fight. 
 
 As a potter might fashion his clay. 
 
 Other way must this daily battle be fought, 
 With no craven heart in the breast,
 
 A SONG FOR MY FELLOWS. 41 
 
 But keeping keen eye on the colours ahead, 
 
 And shoulder and pace with the rest. 
 The bravest of all the fighters is he 
 
 Who, whatever chance may betide, 
 Can turn and fashion some battle-word 
 
 For his fellows on either side. 
 
 Then, brothers, let us rise up from our fears, 
 
 No anvils are we, but men 
 Who can wield the sledge-hammer, like mystic Thor, 
 
 For the daily battle again. 
 Let us strike, with an arm to the shoulder bare, 
 
 That the sinews may play in their might : 
 Let us strike for the manhood we feel within 
 
 And then we will strike for the right. 
 
 What truth in the fable we have from the Greek 
 
 (A fable is truth at white heat) 
 Of Hercules smiting the heads off the beast. 
 
 Till the monster lay dead at his feet. 
 It is still in this planet, wherever he tread, 
 
 God's own given mission to man, 
 That he watch for error uprearing her head 
 
 And strike wherever he can. 
 
 Then seize the sledge-hammer of mighty life. 
 Let the clanging blows resound ;
 
 42 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 He strikes the swiftest and surest of all 
 
 Who stands on no vantage-ground. 
 Let this earth of ours, then, from end to end, 
 
 Be the anvil steady and strong 
 Whereon we beat, in the sight of the gods, 
 
 The hundred heads of wrong. 
 
 What though others around thee turn from the fight 
 
 And chatter, a six-feet ape, 
 Heed them not, for they, too, stand on God's own earth, 
 
 But keep true to thyself and thy shape. 
 Life is earnest only to earnest men. 
 
 Sings the high pure Schiller, and so 
 Let them fashion the blocks of their own rough lives 
 
 To the models they worsliip below. 
 
 But he who can feel lying warm at his heart 
 
 The higher nature of man, 
 And can widen the link between us and the brute. 
 
 Let him boldly step to the van. 
 We will follow him on like a leader of old. 
 
 And echo his battle cry ; 
 Make way for men that will work like men, 
 
 Or, failing, man-like will die. 
 
 Yes — the fight will be long, and the heart will droop, 
 For the ill will seem to win ;
 
 A SONG FOR MY FELLOWS. 43 
 
 But look through the smoke to the goal ahead, 
 
 And fall back on the strength within. 
 Each point that you gain is a step in your life 
 
 To lift you nearer the throng 
 Who have fought and conquer'd, or hero-like died, 
 
 With their hands at the throat of some wrong. 
 
 Then, brothers, bring into this world's wide field 
 
 Firm heart and sure foot for the strife : 
 No anvils are we for each fool to beat out 
 
 His ape-like system of hfe. 
 We strive for a higher standard than his, 
 
 As we echo our battle cry — 
 " Here are men who will work at the tasks of men 
 
 Or, failing, man-like will die ! "
 
 44 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 THE ENGINE. 
 
 "On fire-horses and wind-horses we career." — Carlyle. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the mighty engine, 
 
 As he bounds along his track : 
 Hurrah, for the Hfe that is in him, 
 
 And his breath so thick and black. 
 And hurrah for our fellows, who in their need 
 
 Could fashion a thing like him — 
 With a heart of fire, and a soul of steel, 
 
 And a Samson in every limb. 
 
 Ho ! stand from that narrow path of his, 
 
 Lest his gleaming muscles smite, 
 Like the flaming sword the archangel drew 
 
 When Eden lay wrapp'd in night ; 
 For he cares, not he, for a paltry life 
 
 As he rushes along to the goal. 
 It but costs him a shake of his iron limb, 
 
 And a shriek from his mighty soul. 
 
 Yet I glory to think that I help to keep 
 His footsteps a little in place,
 
 THE ENGINE. 45 
 
 And he thunders his thanks as he rushes on 
 
 In the hghtning speed of his race ; 
 And I think that he knows when he looks at me, 
 
 That, though made of clay as I stand, 
 I could make him as weak as a three hours' child 
 
 With a paltry twitch of my hand. 
 
 But I trust in his strength, and he trusts in me, 
 
 Though made but of brittle clay, 
 While he is bound up in the toughest of steel, 
 
 That tires not night or day ; 
 But for ever flashes, and stretches, and strives, 
 
 While he shrieks in his smoky glee — 
 Hurrah for the puppets that, lost in their thoughts, 
 
 Could rub the lamp for me ! 
 
 that some Roman — Avhen Rome was great — 
 Some quick, light Greek or two — 
 
 Could come from their graves for one half-hour 
 To see what my fellows can do ; 
 
 1 would take them with me on this world's wild steed, 
 
 And give him a little rein ; 
 Then rush with his clanking hoofs through space, 
 With a wreath of smoke for his mane. 
 
 I would say to them as they shook in their fear, 
 " Now what is your paltry book, 
 
 D
 
 46 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Or the Phidian touch of the chisel's point, 
 That can make the marble look, 
 
 To this monster of ours, that for ages lay- 
 In the depths of the dreaming earth, 
 
 Till we brought him out with a cheer and a shout, 
 And hammer'd him into birth?" 
 
 Clank, clank went the hammer in dusty shops, 
 
 The forge-flare went to the sky, 
 While still, like the monster of Frankenstein's, 
 
 This great wild being was nigh ; 
 Till at length he rose up in his sinew and strength, 
 
 And our fellows could see with pride 
 Their grimy brows and their bare, slight arms. 
 
 In the depths of his glancing side. 
 
 Then there rose to their lips a dread question of fear- 
 
 " Who has in him the nerve to start 
 In this mass a soul that will shake and roll 
 
 A river of life to his heart ? " 
 Then a pigmy by jerks went up his side. 
 
 Flung a globe of fire in his breast. 
 And cities leapt nearer by hundreds of miles 
 
 At the first wild snort from his chest. 
 
 Then away he rush'd to his mission of toil. 
 Wherever lay guiding rods,
 
 THE ENGINE. 47 
 
 And the work he could do at each throb of his pulse 
 Flung a blush on the face of the gods. 
 
 And Atlas himself, when he felt his weight, 
 Bent lower his quaking limb, 
 
 Then shook himself free from this earth, and left 
 The grand old planet to him. 
 
 But well can he bear it, this Titan of toil. 
 
 When his pathway yields to his tread ; 
 And the vigour within him flares up to its height. 
 
 Till the smoke of his breath grows red ; 
 Then he shrieks in delight, as an athlete might, 
 
 When he reaches his wild desire. 
 And from head to heel, through each muscle of steel. 
 
 Runs the cunning and clasp of the fire. 
 
 Or, see how he tosses aside the night, 
 
 And roars in his thirsty wrath, 
 While his one great eye gleams white with rage 
 
 At the darkness that muffles his path ; 
 And lo ! as the pent-up flame of his heart 
 
 Flashes out from behind its bars, 
 It gleams like a bolt flung from heaven, and rears 
 
 A ladder of light to the stars. 
 
 '&^ 
 
 Talk of the sea flung back in its wrath 
 By a line of unyielding stone,
 
 48 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Or the slender clutch of a thread-like bridge, 
 
 That knits two valleys in one ! 
 Talk of your miracle-working wires, 
 
 And their world-embracing force, 
 But himniel ! give me the bits of steel 
 
 In the mouth of the thunder-horse ! 
 
 Ay, give me the beat of his fire-fed breast. 
 
 And the shake of his giant frame, 
 And the sinews that work like the shoulders of Jove 
 
 When he launches a bolt of flame ; 
 And give me that Lilliput rider of his, 
 
 Stout and wiry and grim. 
 Who can vault on his back as he puffs his pipe, 
 
 And whisk the breath from him. 
 
 Then hurrah for our mighty engine, boys ; 
 
 He may roar and fume along 
 For a hundred years ere a poet arise 
 
 To shrine him in worthy song; 
 Yet if one with the touch of the gods on his lips. 
 
 And his heart beating wildly and quick. 
 Should rush into song at this demon of ours, 
 
 Let him sing, too, the shovel and pick.
 
 CITY AND VILLAGE. 49 
 
 CITY AND VILLAGE. 
 
 Once again within the city, 'mid its muhitudinous din, 
 Stand I, while, as sinks a leaf when left by the uncertain 
 wind, 
 
 So the daily village quiet, and the calm I had within, 
 
 Shrinks before the magic contact of the ever-shaping mind. 
 
 In the village life is sluggish, waking up but for a space, 
 As the engines shriek and whistle down by hill and 
 wooded glen ; 
 
 But here a mightier striving stamps itself upon my race — 
 Here are all the active ages, and the tramp of busy men. 
 
 Then away with daily labour, thoughts of books or weary 
 rhyme, 
 Let me plunge into this whirlpool rolling on in mad 
 unrest — 
 Let me, Faust-like, have the weal of men in all the coming 
 time, 
 That its triumph may strike vigour through the soul 
 within my breast.
 
 50 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Hush ! we spoke not of the sorrow that upon their joys 
 will peer, 
 As the huge unshapen monster glared in on pale Frank- 
 enstein, 
 Edging life's uncertain smile with all the drapery of a tear, 
 And placing in the cup the drop that dulls and drugs 
 the wine. 
 
 But heed not this, and think that, in the rolling on of years, 
 The slow whirlpool of sure change will lift this life still 
 higher up, 
 
 Till it leave behind its apehood, and its daily load of fears, 
 And drink existence gladly as if angels held the cup. 
 
 Far apocalyptic touches that unveil the years to be, 
 
 Show this in ecstatic glimpses, as when mists upon a hill 
 
 Lift their trailing arms of whiteness, till, as in a dream, we 
 see 
 A summer gush of glory lying hid behind them still. 
 
 Is the pencil of broad Hogarth still to keep its biting truth. 
 
 And for ever flash its satire on the world's sweat-blinded 
 
 sight ? 
 
 Are we still to stumble onward on a pathway all unsmooth, 
 
 Like a Cyclops in his cavern smitten with the loss of 
 
 light ?
 
 CITY AND VILLAGE. 51 
 
 Ay, the time will come, my brothers, though it lies behind 
 far hope, 
 Yet faint flashes rise up from it, like the northern lights 
 we see ; 
 Then, while all the ages come to widen out the mighty scope, 
 Let us lap ourselves in dreams of what our fellow-men 
 will be. 
 
 Look not back with idle murmur lying fretting on thy lips, 
 That which lies behind is but the crude world's shadow 
 in dull light ; 
 Look thou forward where the sunshine from a kindlier 
 heaven slips. 
 Cheering on thy kind to wider vantage-grounds for truth 
 and right. 
 
 The far ages bristling upward, waiting for their unborn men. 
 
 Have in them the golden blossom of the seed we sow 
 
 in fear ; 
 
 Wider growths of thought and ripeness, nobler tasks for 
 
 brain and pen, 
 
 Fuller brotherhood in all that perfects us to manhood here. 
 
 Heart ! to see our future fellows standing on our present 
 gain. 
 Which we wrench'd from the stern centuries, and Samson - 
 like made ours,
 
 52 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Shaping, with a larger forethought and a finer grasp of 
 brain, 
 Pathways to the purer use of life and all our human 
 powers. 
 
 Theirs shall be our slow improvement rising up to perfect 
 bloom. 
 Through the centuries niggard of it, like the aloe with 
 its bud ; 
 It shall bring new modes of thinking that shall all the old 
 entomb, 
 Building up a higher channel for the rushing on of good. 
 
 For our fellows striving onward, though they wear the stain 
 of toil, 
 Ever yearn to shape out goals to which their better 
 natures tend ; 
 And their good within shoots upward, like a plant within 
 the soil, 
 To the higher, grander freedom, to the nobler godlike 
 end. 
 
 Then let change come striking outward, with soft touch or 
 sudden shock, 
 Let the years glide by, if we can feel that in the lapse of 
 time,
 
 CITY AND VILLAGE. 53 
 
 As a leaping mountain torrent through decades can smooth 
 the rock, 
 We are growing better, wiser, surer of the foot to cUmb. 
 
 For the struggle in the climbing will be hard and ill to bear ; 
 
 Each one, like the souls in Dante, wearing cloaks and 
 
 hoods of lead ; 
 
 But for ever as we struggle, with half breath to breathe a 
 
 prayer, 
 
 From above we hear the echo of another brother's tread. 
 
 For the selfless souls amongst us, hearted with the heart 
 of Christ, 
 Ever turn and beckon onward that their strength may 
 be our own ; 
 And we hear their potent watchwords, which, if we could 
 still resist. 
 It were shame upon our foreheads burning to the very bone. 
 
 All their lives and thoughts are with us, and the strong 
 world's future weal 
 Will be shaped by what they fought for, though it may 
 be ere it form 
 (For it will not take their semblance as soft wax takes on 
 the seal), 
 Cycles may rise up, and set in cloudless calm or sudden 
 storm.
 
 54 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 But it will be : higher comfort as we labour scarce can be ; 
 Mists may rise and wrap it from us, but the mighty- 
 darting sun 
 Will strike heat throughout the shadows till like phantom 
 shapes they flee, 
 Leaving all the good we strove for, and the better 
 laurels won. 
 
 Thanks, then, toiling, restless city, that my heart should 
 leap and fill 
 With such thoughts to help me onward in my own rough 
 life and toil, 
 That I see through -all this hurry one ennobling purpose 
 still ; 
 Dim as yet, but growing brighter, like the mists that leave 
 the soil. 
 
 And that purpose still turns brighter at the touch on either 
 hand 
 Of my fellow-kind who, with me, hold the same high 
 hope of this, 
 Each one sets it to that music reaching him where he may 
 stand ; 
 But it still keeps ring and measure to the far-off coming 
 bliss.
 
 CITY AND VILLAGE. 55 
 
 Teach, then, poet, prophet, priest, with hands stretch'd out 
 to that desire ; 
 Ring it forth to toiHng men, and waft it over land and sea, 
 As the rugged Hebrew prophet, while his eyeballs swam 
 in fire. 
 Sent down through his vatic brotherhood the Christ that 
 was to be. 
 
 Far behind me lies the city, with its ebb and flow of men, 
 But the thoughts that came within it are for ever in my 
 breast ; 
 And they leap up as the engines thunder down by hill and 
 glen. 
 Or in my walks at night-time when the village is at rest.
 
 56 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 BEHIND TIME. 
 
 " More coal, Bill," he said, and he held his watch to the 
 light of the glowing fire ; 
 " We are now an hour and a half behind time, and I 
 know that my four months' wife 
 Will be waiting for me at the doorway just now, with never 
 a wish to tire ; 
 But she soon will get used to this sort of thing in an 
 engine-driver's life." 
 
 He open'd the furnace door as he spoke, while I, turning 
 with shovel in hand, 
 Knock'd the fuel into the greedy flame, that was tossing 
 and writhing about, 
 Leaping up from its prison, as if in a wrath it had not the - 
 power to command, 
 Shooting narrow pathways of sudden light through the 
 inky darkness without. 
 
 Then I turn'd to my place, and as onward we clank'd I 
 sang to myself a snatch 
 Of a song, to keep time to the grinding wheel (my voice 
 was as rough as its own) ;
 
 BEHIND TIME. 57 
 
 While Harry cried over, from time to time, as he stole a 
 look at his watch, 
 " Making up for our little delays now, Bill, we shall soon 
 catch the lights of the town." 
 
 A steady fellow was Harry, my mate, with a temper like 
 that of a child ; 
 Loved by all on the line. — " Keeps time like Harry," 
 the guards used to say. 
 What a marriage was that of his when it came, and how we 
 stokers went wild 
 To deck our engines with ivy and flowers in honour of 
 such a day. 
 
 A nice happy maiden he got for a wife, but a little timid, 
 poor thing — 
 Never could rest when her husband was late, our " pitch- 
 ins" were getting so rife; 
 And this would make Harry cry over to me, as we thunder'd 
 with rush and swing, 
 "Always like to run sharp to time for the sake of my 
 little wife." 
 
 We were now dashing on at a headlong speed, like the sweep 
 of a winter wind. 
 When a head-light in front made me step to his side and 
 cry, with my mouth to his ear —
 
 58 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 " Joe Smith coming on with the midnight goods — he, too, 
 is an hour behind ; 
 He should have been safe through Hinchley cutting, 
 instead of passing us here." 
 
 On came the train ; but ere we had reach'd in passing the 
 middle part, 
 A heavy beam in one of the trucks, that had jolted loose 
 from its place, 
 Crash'd through the storm-board, swift as a bolt, striking 
 Harry full in the heart, 
 And sent him into the tender with death lying white on 
 his manly face. 
 
 With a cry of horror I knelt by his side, and, lifting a Httle 
 his head, 
 I saw his lips move as if wishing to speak, but the words 
 were lost in a moan. 
 ' Harry !" He open'd his eyes for a moment, then lifting 
 his finger, said — 
 " O Bill, my wife — behind time f and I was left on the 
 engine alone. 
 
 My God ! what a journey was that through the night, with 
 the pall-like darkness before. 
 And behind the dead form of my mate muffled up, look- 
 ing ghastly, rigid, and dumb ;
 
 BEHIND TIME. 59 
 
 And ever on either side as I turn'd, a face at a half-shut 
 door 
 Peering into the street, to Hsten the sound of footsteps 
 that never would come. 
 
 How that frail slight wife bore the terrible death of the one 
 she had loved so well 
 I know not ; the horror of that one night with the dead 
 was enough to bear ; 
 And the guardsmen who bore their sad burden home, had 
 not language left them to tell 
 Of the awful depths to which sorrow will reach when led 
 by a woman's despair. 
 
 Ah ! years have gone by since then, but still when I hear 
 the guards say, " Behind time," 
 Like a flash I go back to that hour in the night, mark'd 
 red in my life's return sheet, 
 And again in my terror I kneel by Harry, struck down in 
 his manly prime. 
 While his four months' wife stood waiting to hear the 
 wish'd-for sound of his feet.
 
 6o SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 THE FIRST-FOOT. 
 
 Bright the firelight touch'd his portrait hanging on our 
 humble wall, 
 But a sweeter light was in us, with a deeper, purer 
 glow — 
 He was coming home, our darling — fair and frank, and broad 
 and tall — 
 First-foot on our simple threshold, cover'd with the New 
 Year's snow. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock will strike, dear wife, before the train comes 
 in to-night," 
 Said my husband at the doorway, he, too, glad at heart 
 '■ and gay ; 
 
 And he turn'd a step to meet me as I whisper'd, soft and 
 light, 
 " Let him enter first," and, smihng at my words, he went 
 away. 
 
 Then I turn'd, my OAvn heart bursting at the joy about to 
 come, 
 Drew the chair a little nearer to the glowing evening fire ;
 
 THE FIRST-FOOT. 6i 
 
 Heard in freaks of my own fancy all the laughter and the 
 hum 
 Of a well-known voice that whisper'd ever at my least 
 desire. 
 
 Fondly to myself I pictured all his much-prized honours won, 
 Earnest of the future harvests that the years would open 
 up; 
 Caught a hundred whispers rising with this burden still, 
 " our son ;" 
 O ! a mother's joy has not one drop of gall within the 
 cup. 
 
 Then I went, and by the window watch'd with eager gazing 
 eye 
 All the distant railway lights that slowly came in sight to 
 me ; 
 Question'd to myself, " Now, which of these far lights is 
 bringing nigh 
 Our first-foot for the New Year that in one little hour 
 will be V 
 
 But a deep chill, like a viper's touch, crept through me as I 
 stood, 
 Bringing hand-in-hand a terror, as behind the farthest 
 light 
 
 E
 
 6'2 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Rose another in the darkness, that hke one great splash of 
 blood, 
 Gleam'd like a murder seen of God within the folds of 
 night. 
 
 Rooted to the place I stood, and watch'd its steady, fiery- 
 gleam. 
 All the pulses in my being beating as in act to fail ; 
 And my heart sank down within me, like a stone flung in 
 the stream. 
 As behind it rose an engine's whistle with a ghostly wail. 
 
 For at that drear whistle all the years broke from their 
 rusty bands, 
 Each one teeming with its fatal slip that happen'd in a 
 breath — 
 How a traitor wheel, or pointsman's hasty clutch of faithless 
 hands, 
 Scatter'd broadcast human lives to grace the silent feast 
 of death. 
 
 Ah ! what battles hope had all that weary hour with count- 
 less fears ; 
 What deep, silent prayers rose upward that the lips still 
 fail'd to speak ;
 
 THE FIRST-FOOT. 6j 
 
 What deep pain within the bosom, with its load of unwept 
 tears, 
 That would not give one kindly drop to soften brow or 
 cheek. 
 
 Came the hour at last, and striking, each stroke sounded 
 like a knell, 
 Bodeful of some fate — but, hark ! a sound of footsteps 
 at the gate. 
 And my tears burst from their prison, and rose upward 
 like a well, 
 At the coming joy about to crown my long and weary 
 wait. 
 
 Then I heard the sound of whispers faint, as if in awe 
 suppress'd. 
 And with all my wild, deep dread within, I open'd up 
 the door — 
 Saw a burden in strange arms, and in their silence found 
 the rest — 
 O my God ! first-foot in heaven ! and for days I knew 
 no more. 
 
 Slowly dawn'd the truth upon me, as my life came back 
 again — 
 How a signal, clear a moment to the engine-driver's eye,
 
 64 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Brought him on with ringing rush and crash against and 
 through the train ! 
 And my hfe's one hope lay mangled in that sudden 
 shock and cry ! 
 
 Years have pass'd, but still that time brings round the great 
 red light to me ; 
 With it come the solemn footsteps, and the whispers 
 hush'd and low ; 
 And again the door is open'd, while like one struck dumb 
 I see 
 My darling's blood with that round light upon the 
 ghastly snow.
 
 RID OF HIS ENGINE. 65 
 
 RID OF HIS ENGINE. 
 
 The way that it came about was this — 
 I was stoker for over two years to Bill, 
 
 But do as we might something went amiss 
 With that creaking confounded engine still. 
 
 We never ran time, and were always late ; 
 
 Now a throttle valve would get choked and stop, 
 Then an axle grow hot as a coal in the grate, 
 
 Next a tube would burst, and — into the shop. 
 
 How Bill did swear when delays took place ; 
 
 He would chew till his lips were almost black, 
 Then say, with an oath, looking into my face — 
 
 " I wish I was rid of this engine. Jack." 
 
 But she stuck to us still, like one of the Fates, 
 
 Snorting and creaking on, until 
 A sort of proverb grew up with our mates, 
 
 " Six hours behind time, like Jack and Bill." 
 
 Well, one night on our way through Deepside Moss- 
 It was then our turn out with the midnight goods-
 
 66 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Bill had sworn at the engine till he was cross, 
 And was now into one of his quieter moods. 
 
 When, just as I lifted up my head 
 
 From the furnace-door, there right in front 
 
 (I had miss'd the signal standing red), 
 
 Was a mineral train that had stopp'd to shunt. 
 
 I shut off the steam, and I shook up Bill — 
 
 " For God's sake look out " — when with one wild roar, 
 
 And a crash that is making my ears ring still. 
 We pitch'd into the train, and I knew no more. 
 
 When I came to myself I was down the bank, 
 Half-a-yard from my head lay a waggon wheel. 
 
 With its axle twisted and bent like a crank, 
 But no hurt was upon me that I could feel. 
 
 Then I heard coming downward the sound of speech. 
 
 And struggling up to the top, I found 
 That engine and tender lay piled upon each. 
 
 With a fencework of waggons and vans around. 
 
 "What a smash !" said the guard, and I ask'd "Where's Bill?" 
 He turn'd, and the light of his lamp was cast 
 
 On a form at my feet, lying stiff and still : 
 Bill had got rid of his engine at last.
 
 JIM'S WHISTLE. 67 
 
 JIM'S WHISTLE. 
 
 No, the railway wasn't a fitting place 
 
 For a man like him, at least one in his case ; 
 
 But though deaf and dumb, he was quick of the eye, 
 
 And was first to warn when a train came nigh. 
 
 Why, instead of keeping our eye on Jim, 
 
 We came in our turn to be watch'd by him. 
 
 Whether it was express going past, 
 
 Special, mineral, goods, slow or fast. 
 
 It was all the same. Jim could always catch 
 
 Up and down line, as if set to watch. 
 
 When we heard his cry, short, sharp, and clear, 
 
 " Jim's Whistle," we said, and at once stood clear. 
 
 Clever workman he was, and handy, too ; 
 
 Knew at a glance what he had to do ; 
 
 He was my mate, and 'twas something to see 
 
 The finger talk between him and me. 
 
 And to hear him laugh to the rest of our mates 
 
 When he tried to tickle me over the plates.
 
 68 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 At our dinner hour, when we sat at the side 
 
 Of the cutting, Jim took a sort of pride 
 
 In sitting near me, while his fingers said 
 
 All the quaint, strange thoughts that came into his head ; 
 
 While at each he would laugh, till the rest would say, 
 
 "Jim's in one of his talking moods to-day." 
 
 But I lost him at last : though my mate for years. 
 And quick of the eye, I had still my fears, 
 That Jim would get caught in spite of our pains, 
 By engine and tender or passing trains. 
 And it came at last so sudden and quick, 
 We left in the four-feet shovel and pick. 
 
 'Twas in Dixon's cut. Jim had been that day 
 Full of finger talk in his own swift way. 
 When, just as we clear'd the down line for a train 
 That was coming onward with jolt and strain. 
 Round the curve of the up line, swift as the wind, 
 Came a passenger train, half-an-hour behind. 
 
 A cry from us all and a leap to the side 
 
 As the train tore on with its terrible stride ; 
 
 But where was Jim ? We had miss'd his cry — 
 
 The whistle that warn'd when a train was nigh. 
 
 Alas ! in the six-feet, stiff of limb, 
 
 With the blood on his face and lips lay — Jim.
 
 JIM'S WHISTLE. 69 
 
 I ran to his side and lifted his head, 
 
 One look was enough — my mate was dead ; 
 
 I laid him down in the self-same place, 
 
 Then turn'd away with the tears on my face. 
 
 " Jim's Whistle," said one, that was all our speech. 
 
 As we stood in our grief looking each at' each. 
 
 t 
 
 And now at my daily work, other mate 
 Than Jim on the other side of the plate, 
 I sometimes start with the wish to cry, 
 "Jim's Whistle, lads, let the train go by." 
 And often my fingers go up, as if Jim 
 Were with me, and I were talking to him.
 
 70 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 MOVE UPWARD. 
 
 " Move upward, working out the brute, 
 
 And let the ape and tiger die." — Tennyson. 
 
 Ay, in heaven's name, let us move upward still 
 
 In this time-changing planet of ours, 
 And bring to the task what the gods still ask — • 
 
 The best of our years and our powers. 
 Let us make this great century, whirling around, 
 
 A footstool to lift up the foot. 
 Whereon we may cry, looking upward to God — 
 
 " We are all this way from the brute." 
 
 Is the dream of the poet forever to be 
 
 Like the myth of the Greek, or at least 
 The skeleton dress'd up in costliest gold. 
 
 And set in the midst of the feast ? 
 Is the double meaning forever to wind 
 
 Like the coil of the snake round our speech ? 
 And the Dead Sea fable still utter its truth 
 
 As we mimic and chatter to each ?
 
 MOVE UPWARD. 71 
 
 But questions are weapons an infant can lift, 
 
 Let us marry the fruitfuller act, 
 And widen our being to let in the light, 
 
 And the strength of the deed-giving fact. 
 Is it not enough we have come from God? 
 
 But since time took his birthright in years, 
 We have bred with the brute, and our offspring has been 
 
 The sucklings of bloodshed and tears. 
 
 It were time, then, to burst from the links we have forged 
 
 To fetter the soul in the breast, 
 Though the wrench should bring with it the best of our 
 blood, 
 
 And we faint as a pilgrim for rest. 
 Heart ! but each has some task he must close with his life 
 
 When he slips from this world's wide plan, 
 And the highest a man can shape out for himself 
 
 Is to move himself upward to man. 
 
 Ay, move himself up to that nature of his 
 
 Which, though trampled and trod in the dust. 
 Still shows, as a jewel may gleam through the sand. 
 
 The finger of God through its crust. 
 Let him, then, so alive with miraculous breath. 
 
 Make the best of his energies join. 
 Till he lift himself up in the light of the Christ 
 
 To the clear, true ring of the coin.
 
 72 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 There be some who squat down by the world's rough path, 
 
 As if life were a burden to shirk, 
 Heeding not the great watchword it thunders to all — 
 
 " Up, shoulder to shoulder, and work ! " 
 But sit in their darkness to wince at the truth, 
 
 As an owl at the light sits and blinks, 
 And for ever propound each his question to solve, 
 
 Like a nineteenth-century Sphinx. 
 
 " Move upward from what?" they demand, with a croak, 
 
 And I break in at once and reply — 
 " From the sham that has flung our soul under its heel. 
 
 And the words that but wrap up a lie — 
 From the thought that still grovels and hides in the dust. 
 
 As a viper may do, until blind 
 It springs up to find venom to add to its own, 
 
 In the plague-spots seen in our kind." 
 
 Ay, battle with this as a fighter strikes out. 
 
 When he stands with his back to the wall, 
 With no help but the strength that is in his right arm, 
 
 And the eye that has glances for all. 
 Shame on us, then, who stand with our face to the front. 
 
 And modell'd in God's mighty shape, 
 If we roughen our soul with the dust of the earth, 
 
 To give better foothold for the ape.
 
 MOVE UPWARD. -jz 
 
 God ! to look on this manifold, wonderful earth, 
 
 As Novalis look'd on men, 
 And feel the old rev'rence grow upward within 
 
 To the pitch of the Hebrews again — 
 To have the rapt soul and the calm, deep eye 
 
 That can look upon all without fear, 
 And the firm, steady beat of the heart that can feel 
 
 When the footsteps of God are anear. 
 
 It may be that we may, fighting upward to this, 
 
 Grow footsore and faint in the heat. 
 But the moving oneself up to heights in this life 
 
 Spreads no carpeted way for the feet. 
 Let us think of those grand, true souls who have left 
 
 Guiding-posts on each side of the way. 
 And press ever on with our eyes to the light 
 
 They have left as a part of their day. 
 
 Ay, in Heaven's name, let us move upward, then, 
 
 To the grand, true ring of the man, 
 Giving to this one task all the best of our years, 
 
 And the strength to reach up to the plan. 
 Let the " Ernst ist das Leben " of Schiller speak on, 
 
 Till we seize and place under our foot 
 The head of the ape, crying upward to God, 
 
 " Lo ! at last we are free from the brute !"
 
 74 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 SONG OF THE ENGINE. 
 
 In the shake and rush of the engine, 
 
 In the full, deep breath of his chest, 
 In the swift, clear clank of the gleaming crank. 
 
 In his soul that is never at rest ; 
 In the spring and ring of the bending rail, 
 
 As he thunders and hurtles along, 
 A strong world's melody fashions itself. 
 
 And this smoke-demon calls it his song, 
 
 " Hurrah ! for my path I devour in my wrath. 
 
 As I rush to the cities of men 
 With a load I lay down like a slave at their feet, 
 
 Then turn and come backward again. 
 Hurrah ! for the rush of the yielding air 
 
 That gives way to my wdld, fierce springs 
 As I keep to the rail, while my heart seems to burst 
 
 In a wild, mad craving for wings. 
 
 " I rush by hills where the shepherds are seen 
 Like a speck as they w^alk on their side ; 
 I roar through glens and by rocks that shake 
 As I quicken the speed of my stride.
 
 SONG OF THE ENGINE. 75 
 
 I glide by woods and by rockbound streams 
 
 That hurry and race in their glee, 
 But swift as they run, with their face to the sun, 
 
 They can never keep pace with me. 
 
 " I tear through caverns of sudden dark, 
 
 Like that in which first I lay, 
 Ere the cunning of man had alit on a plan 
 
 To drag me up to the day, 
 I rush with a shriek, which is all I can speak, 
 
 A wild protest against fear ; 
 But I come to the light with a snort of delight, 
 
 And my black breath far in the rear. 
 
 " I crash along bridges that span the hills, 
 
 And catch at a glimpse below 
 The roof-thatch'd cot and the low white wall 
 
 Lying white in the sun's last glow. 
 Or it may be the gleam of some dull, broad stream 
 
 Creeping slowly onward beneath. 
 While within its breast for a moment I catch 
 
 The shadow and film of my breath. 
 
 " I rush over roofs in my madness of flight, 
 But not like the demon of old ; 
 I leave them unturn'd, for the arches in air 
 Bear me up, and my feet keep their hold.
 
 ^6 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 At times, too, I catch, when I check my speed, 
 
 The long, wide lane of the street, 
 And hear, 'twixt the snorts of my own fierce breath. 
 
 The clamour and hurry of feet. 
 
 " Then I snatch a look at the puppets beneath, 
 
 But to snort and rush onward again. 
 With a fear at my heart almost quenching its heat. 
 
 For, heavens ! these must be men — 
 Ay, men, I could bend like the willow, but who. 
 
 With a thought that from nothing will shrink. 
 Have hurl'd me down with their hands on my throat. 
 
 And bound me in rivet and link. 
 
 " I rush by village, and cottage, and farm ; 
 
 I thunder sudden and quick 
 Upon handfuls of men who leap out of my way. 
 
 And lean on their shovel or pick. 
 There is one brown fellow among them who sings 
 
 The terrible sweep of my limb ; 
 The fool ! dare he mimic this music of mine, 
 
 And such pitiful music in him ? 
 
 " I flare tlirough the night when the stars are bright. 
 With the lights of the city for mark : 
 With bound upon bound I shake the ground, 
 As I feel for the rail in the dark.
 
 SONG OF THE ENGINE. ^^ 
 
 And I know that the stars whisper each to each, 
 
 As downward they flicker and peer, 
 ' What is this that these fellows have hit on below. 
 
 That seems like a meteor from here ? ' 
 
 " For my great eye glistens and gleams in the front, 
 
 As if to give light to my tread. 
 While behind, like the fires of a Vulcan flung out, 
 
 Three others glare thirsty and red. 
 And the flame licking round the fierce life in my heart, 
 
 Let loose for a moment, upsprings. 
 And darts through the whirls of my breath overhead, 
 
 Till it makes me a demon with wings. 
 
 " I send through the city's wild heart shocks of life, 
 
 But to feel them come back like a wave ; 
 I loom broad and swart in wild traffic's rough mart, 
 
 I kneel to men like a slave. 
 I gather from all the four ends of the earth, 
 
 "What profit and use there may be — 
 Did the Greek ever dream, in his talk with the gods, 
 
 Of a wild beast of burden like me ? 
 
 " But often my own wild thoughts leap far ahead. 
 And I question myself with a moan — 
 ' Will I ripen and grow into sinew and limb 
 With the higher race that comes on ? 
 
 F
 
 78 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Or shall I grow white with the hoar of the years 
 
 That, falling, cankers and wears — 
 Turning feeble of limb with the things that benumb, 
 
 And steal the vigour from theirs ? 
 
 " ' Were this worthy end for a being like mine, 
 
 Begot in the frenzy of thought. 
 And sent as the type of the soul of this age, 
 
 Setting time and distance at nought ? 
 No, death may leap back, like men from my track, 
 
 For my iron-girt bosom will beat, 
 Till the judgment-bolts flung from the right hand of God 
 
 Smite the pathway from under my feet' " 
 
 Thus he snorts and sings as he thunders by me, 
 
 This wild smoke-demon of ours, 
 While from end to end the rail quivers and bends 
 
 To his thousand Hercules' powers. 
 And his great breath mixes and whirls with the clouds, 
 
 While he whoops as if mad with glee — 
 " Did the Greek ever dream, in his talk with the gods. 
 
 Of a black beast of burden like me ?"
 
 ON THE ENGINE BY NIGHT. 79 
 
 ON THE ENGINE BY NIGHT. 
 
 On the engine in the night-time, with the darkness all 
 
 around, 
 And below the iron pulses beating on with mighty sound. 
 And I stand as one in wonder, till within a flush of pride 
 Leaps and kindles, and my soul is in the mighty monster's 
 
 stride. 
 Then I hear amid the clanking and the tumult of the steel, 
 Something like a song spring upward from the grinding of 
 
 the wheel, 
 Low at first but high and higher, till, as day is wide and free, 
 Comes the song, and this mad lyric sings the monster unto 
 
 me : — 
 " In the glowing of my bosom, in the roar and rush of fire, 
 Is the strength that makes the distance shrivel in to my 
 
 desire, 
 And I roll along in thunder swift as is the lightning fleet — 
 Let the Frankensteins who made me keep the guiding of 
 
 my feet, 
 For I work with them and labour, bearing in my smoky 
 
 mirth 
 All the strain and rush of traffic, as an Atlas bears the earth ;
 
 8o SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Striving with them till my sinews, bending to their mighty 
 
 load, 
 Shake and glisten like the muscles on the shoulder of a god. 
 Shame that I should let such puppets move me at their 
 
 slightest will — 
 I, the Cyclops of this darkness, with a forehead flaming still — 
 I who have within a vigour equal to all fabled power, 
 And the soul of mad Prometheus, with his cunning for a 
 
 dower ! 
 But they draw me onward, placing slips of rail beneath my 
 
 tread, 
 While my fiery strength within me to a thousand tasks is 
 
 wed, 
 So that all my panting being, marvelling at such display, 
 Questions, as I foam and thunder, ' Who is greater ? I or 
 
 they?' 
 This I heed not, for their purpose mixing ever with my 
 
 own, 
 Keeps the iron will within me pulsing to a proper tone. 
 Therefore let my mission widen till my shriek of triumph 
 
 rings, 
 Ever from the front of progress leading onward human 
 
 things. 
 Lo ! the ages yet that slumber in the mighty womb of Time, 
 At their birth shall gather round me, for my strength shall 
 
 touch its prime.
 
 ON THE ENGINE BY NIGHT. 8i 
 
 They shall hail me as their king, and bring round my giant 
 
 life 
 All this mad and restless planet, with its myriad forms of strife. 
 Then a deeper thirst shall stir me, and a wilder vigour cling 
 To my never-tiring sinews, as my iron footsteps ring. 
 Puppets of a restless frenzy, they shall work me till the earth 
 Bears upon her farthest bosom fiery tokens of my birth. 
 But I make myself a prophet, yet these miracles shall be, 
 And be sung in lyrics worthy of this iron heart in me. 
 Therefore thou who standest wondering while I toil and 
 
 shriek along. 
 See that all my world-wide mission touch thee into proper 
 
 song. 
 Sing the nerve and toil within me, and the vast desires that 
 
 fret 
 Till before them all their purpose and their mighty goals 
 
 are set ; 
 Sing them unto men in music, rough as is my tortured shriek. 
 When my strength flares up within me, and my mighty soul 
 
 must speak. 
 So that I may hear their paeans as I flash and thunder on, 
 The rough Hercules of Labour, ever potent and alone." 
 
 Thus the monster sang, and ever as he sped with flash and 
 
 glare 
 All his fiery thoughts went upward, like red stars into the air,
 
 82 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And each throb that shook his being found a ready voice 
 
 in mine, 
 Crying — All the soul within him is but as a part of thine ; 
 Then a deeper pride grew in me, and my heart beat higher 
 
 still. 
 For I felt myself a part of all his iron strength and will — 
 Mine the endless grasp of sinew, mine the miracle of mind, 
 Mine the glory and the triumph of my toiling fellow-kind. 
 Thus I thought ; and through the night time, as the monster 
 
 clank'd along, 
 I grew prouder of my labour and my little gift of song.
 
 A SONG OF PROGRESS. 83 
 
 A SONG OF PROGRESS. 
 
 Come away from pick and shovel for another day again, 
 
 Ghde along the veins of iron leading to the city's heart, 
 Walk its streets and rub a shoulder with my wondrous 
 fellow-men, 
 Then come back and stand with firmer foot in labour's 
 toiling mart. 
 
 Thus I thought as ever onward, through the golden summer 
 day. 
 Went the engine, all his pathway ringing answers to his 
 tread, 
 Heard him shriek at every steady arm of red that cross'd 
 his way. 
 His great nineteenth century watch-cry for the world to 
 move ahead. 
 
 Ah ! what toil in dark and daylight, aching brain and weary 
 eye, 
 Waiting for the magic thought to burst its cycled chiysalis,
 
 84 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Till at last, like some Messiah, Science brings her hand- 
 maids nigh, 
 And we stand on stairs of centuries with a mighty thing 
 like this ! 
 
 He, our wild familiar, tamed to rush where'er we point or 
 speak. 
 Turning, where his footsteps wander, earth into one 
 mighty mart ; 
 Looming in the midst of traffic, as from out the ranks of 
 Greek 
 Tower'd the elephant, that terror sent to every Roman's 
 heart. 
 
 Lo ! at last the toiling city, where the foremost ranks of life 
 
 Rush and strive in ceaseless struggle, ebbing but to come 
 
 again ; 
 
 And my heart leaps up within me, palpitating for the strife, 
 
 In the maelstrom of swart traffic, in the toil and shock 
 
 of men. 
 
 Here is life on either hand that might disturb each idle 
 
 god— 
 
 Drowsy-brain'd, with golden nectar bubbling from Hebean 
 
 cup : 
 
 Life, as if some mighty giant had beneath these streets abode, 
 
 And was stretching every muscle in his frenzy to burst up.
 
 A SONG OF PROGRESS. 85 
 
 Shame on all the later devil's whisper, crying in our ear — 
 " We are apes of broader forehead, with the miracle of 
 speech ;" 
 Rather nineteenth century men, that have a thought Who 
 sent us here : 
 Higher faiths are ours, my fellows, low enough for us to 
 reach. 
 
 What though I, your feeble helpmate, stand among you all 
 unknown ? 
 Yet each pulse within me, as a hand laid on responsive 
 strings. 
 Vibrates to each new-shaped purpose rising up within your 
 own. 
 Ringing forth excelsior paeans for the onward march of 
 things. 
 
 Everywhere to bound the vision, the miraculous faith of toil 
 
 Rears, as worship, mighty monsters with their hundred 
 
 arms flung loose ; 
 
 Miles of vessels throbbing in their haste to fling a liquid coil 
 
 Of commerce round the nations kneeling with their 
 
 proff"er'd use. 
 
 What a seven-leagued stride from Adam, and the languor 
 of the East,
 
 86 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 To tliis century lapping round us, like a mad and hungry- 
 sea, 
 To the chainless brain that, like the geni, from the dark 
 released. 
 
 Fills the earth with triumphs, earnest of the greater yet 
 to be. 
 
 Heavens ! how the unseen multitudinous coils of serpent 
 thought 
 Draw this earth within their clasp, till, as upon the 
 father s face, 
 Where the Deity of pain grew, as the throbbing sculptor 
 wrought. 
 So her rugged features lighten, lying in their firm embrace. 
 
 But I wander from the city. Let me turn again to find 
 
 In the waves of human faces rolUng past on either side 
 Links that, strong as bands of iron, draw me onward to my 
 kind. 
 Till their fellowship shoots through me with electric thrills 
 of pride. 
 
 For in them is the sure seed from which the ages yet 
 to be. 
 Rising up with'great broad sickle, shall reap all its golden 
 grain ;
 
 A SONG OF PROGRESS. 87 
 
 Then the kindlier thought and nobler use of manhood shall 
 be free, 
 And be brighter from the struggle such a sunny height 
 to gain. 
 
 This we may not see ; yet, brothers, it were something 
 grand to die 
 But to hear a shout ring upward, through the death-mists 
 thick and vast, 
 Loud as when a thousand people join their voice in one 
 long cry, 
 That the world's great fight for brotherhood had clutch'd 
 the palm at last. 
 
 It will come : I hear its promise ringing on from street to 
 street 
 (Shame if we could play for ever at the game of Hood- 
 man-blind) : 
 I can see it ; other mark than Cain's upon each brow I meet ; 
 And the engine's whistle shrieks it as the city sinks behind. 
 
 Back to honest pick and shovel, and to daily task again — 
 Back with nobler thoughts within me, all the higher aims 
 to cheer ; 
 Better, too, in having rubb'd a shoulder with my fellow-men, 
 And the thinking that I help them at my lowly labour 
 here.
 
 88 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 
 
 The first break in our happy household hearth 
 Was my broad manly son, and far away 
 
 He sleeps, while by the churchyard's holy earth 
 Throb the great engines onward day by day. 
 
 Ah me ! and as I hear in this strange land 
 Their whistle from the distant to\\Ti, I feel 
 
 As if I saw him slipping foot and hand, 
 
 And lying crush'd beneath the heartless wheel. 
 
 Then I live o'er again that awful night. 
 
 When to my door the whisper'd message came, 
 
 That made my heart leap up with sudden fright, 
 And all the silence tremble with his name. 
 
 A splash of blood fell everywhere I look'd, 
 Turning my tears to the same purple hue, 
 
 While in me rose dread fears my heart rebuked, 
 As all his vanish'd life rose up to view.
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 89 
 
 They brought him home, and up the Httle street 
 They bore him slowly to his early rest, 
 
 Laying the green sod, that of old his feet 
 Had trod in Sabbath days, upon his breast. 
 
 He slept, while in my heart I bore the pain 
 That still would live at times, until at last 
 
 My being's inner depths closed up again, 
 And gave but little token of the past. 
 
 Then came a change. I left that dear old spot 
 Where boyhood, manhood, all had come to me — 
 
 Came here among my sons, but never brought 
 My heart, for that was still beyond the sea. 
 
 Yet that one night before I left, I took 
 
 My stand beside his grave, and with hush'd breath. 
 Raised to the skies a father's silent look. 
 
 And took mute farewell of the dust beneath. 
 
 Then, turning as beneath some sudden blight, 
 I staggefd down the churchyard big with fears, 
 
 Went down the street for the last time, the night 
 Around me hiding all my bitter tears. 
 
 I reach'd my lowly home, now cold and dim, 
 Sat by the hearth, a shadow on my mind.
 
 90 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Thinking how all around me seem'd like him 
 Whose dust cost such a pang to leave behind. 
 
 I sail'd. And now between me and that home 
 The ocean rolls with never-ceasing moan, 
 
 Checking all in me save my dreams, that roam 
 To bring old faces nearer to my own. 
 
 But still, whenever from the distant town 
 I hear the engine shriek, then far away 
 
 I wander to that gi^ave, where up and down, 
 Close by his rest, they thunder day by day.
 
 IN THE VANGUARD. 91 
 
 IN THE VANGUARD. 
 
 Into all the onward current and this iron time that feels 
 Its own way with din and clamour through this century of 
 ours 
 Come I, while the toiling planet like some stricken monster 
 reels 
 In an overheat to reach the very climax of its powers. 
 
 But the ages, ever watchful of their growing higher need, 
 Cry — " Before we hail him poet, glowing with the vatic 
 mood. 
 He must, with his brow turn'd upward, stand like rock upon 
 his creed, 
 Ours shall be the task to shelter what may spring from 
 where he stood." 
 
 Then I answer — " One great creed is mine, but as the 
 blinding sun 
 Draws the unseen stars in day-time, though we try in vain 
 to see,
 
 92 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 So the lesser creeds twine round it, as it towers in height 
 alone ; 
 That one faith is trust in God and Christ and all the great 
 To Be. 
 
 " All the lesser are the social bands that knit me to my kind, 
 Farther progress, higher culture, and the touch of purer 
 thought, 
 Passing on the watchward ' Forward,' to another kindred 
 mind. 
 Fighting for the broader platform as an earnest fighter 
 ousht." 
 
 'O' 
 
 Then the ages pause a moment, all unnoted of the earth. 
 Speak in earnest, half-heard whispers, then turn slowly 
 round again. 
 
 Crying, " If this fellow yearns to battle for the purer birth, 
 Let him pass and fight it out amid his boasted fellow- 
 
 men." 
 
 So I come, then, brothers, shoulder touching shoulder in the 
 throng ; 
 Shame if I could stand thus feeling all the kindred aims 
 ye bear 
 With my lips shut, like Ridolpho's, as in Dante's solemn 
 song. 
 Nor give one single echo to the music leaping there.
 
 IN THE VANGUARD. 93 
 
 If there be in song a hidden, talismanic force and power, 
 
 That for ever lifts us upward to the purer life and thought, 
 It were something but to leave behind, though dying in an 
 hour, 
 Some stray note of music chording with the great world's 
 as it ought ; 
 
 Or, to think that in our toiling some quick fragment of that 
 flame 
 Which from nature ever clasps its coils of living fire round 
 men. 
 Might be put in words by us and shot, with hundred-tongued 
 acclaim. 
 From firm heart to heart, until it struck back on our own 
 again. 
 
 Ay, to catch in some wild frenzy, as the painter dash'd his 
 brush 
 ' Gainst the passive canvas, mad to grasp the wild wave's 
 mimic foam. 
 All the thought that, like a Pallas, still unseen will ever rush 
 From the brain of the wide present to the grander time 
 to come. 
 
 So the deep, forecasting poet, glowing with his rhythmic art, 
 
 Leans against the broad-based future while his soul in 
 
 visions dips ; 
 
 G
 
 94 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Rising with some mighty lyric, shooting throbs from heart 
 to heart, 
 Caught when nature fell upon him with her own apoca- 
 lypse. 
 
 But I come not with such lyrics — mine have not the ring 
 and sound 
 To catch the swift world's straining ear, athirst for nobler 
 things ; 
 Yet my hand and heart are yearning for a power to be un- 
 bound. 
 That my soul may catch some music worthy of the higher 
 strings. 
 
 " Lo, he comes," perchance some whisper, " with a thought 
 laid out for wrong, 
 Little points of poison-blisters, plentiful in modern days ; 
 Lo, he comes with something in him that unwisely takes to 
 song, 
 Croaking from a dusty railway for a paltry boon of 
 praise!" 
 
 Heavens ! praise were worthless fruit to pluck and gather in 
 these years, 
 When the loftier thought must grow, and all the lower, 
 baser aims
 
 IN THE VANGUARD. 95 
 
 That fling roots down, like the banyan, must be torn up with 
 our tears, 
 That the future may not wear upon its brow a thousand 
 shames. 
 
 What is all this earth around us but a place to wrestle in, 
 Foot to foot and hand to hand with all the beasts that 
 must be fought ? 
 Fight it out, and let the still gods turn their thumbs up when 
 we win, 
 Like the Romans in the circus when their blood ran swift 
 and hot. 
 
 Fight with hate and scorn and envy, fight with all that saps 
 the man ; 
 We have grand, true types before us, shame on those who 
 turn and yield ! 
 Better lying dead, to serve as stepping-stones to raise the 
 van. 
 Than lose all this noble manhood, and return without our 
 shield. 
 
 Oh, that some great painter, glowing with the secret of his 
 art, 
 Would place upon the canvas, when his thought was pure 
 and high,
 
 96 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 A dead Spartan, kill'd in fight, that we might catch with soul 
 and heart 
 The wild energy of purpose not yet quench'd within his 
 eye ! 
 
 Honour to the great and noble on whatever ground they 
 stand, 
 If they give us higher stand-points — for such office were 
 they sent ; 
 Honour to them, if we feel the strong grasp of an unseen 
 hand 
 Leading us to what they fought for by the pathways that 
 they went. , 
 
 In these days they speak of missions ; noblest of them all is 
 this. 
 That we train our manhood upward, till the grand and 
 fearless thrill. 
 Which, ere Adam lost his splendour, ran like bands of steel 
 through his, 
 Lies like fire about our hearts, to keep our purpose earnest 
 still. 
 
 For we are not as some preach, with faithless hands that 
 beckon doubt. 
 Drops of life from godless matter struck by some stray 
 random touch.
 
 IN THE VANGUARD. 97 
 
 When the forces play'd at blind buff, but by God Himself 
 
 shaped out — 
 Autographs of Him in flesh, yet all unworthy to be such. 
 
 Then we dare not but move upward, though we falter in our 
 tread, 
 Though we feel, around our limbs the paralysing coils of 
 fear; 
 Lo ! afar we hear brave whispers coming from the earnest 
 dead, 
 As the old heroic voices sung with winds in Ossian's ear. 
 
 Up, then, to our life-long fight, and fling the gage of battle 
 down. 
 Let the ages bear our word of rally onward far and quick ; 
 Nobler usage of this manhood, from the king who wears a 
 crown 
 Down to ourselves, my brothers, working with the spade 
 and pick !
 
 98 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 BILL'S LENGTH. 
 
 " On to Bill's length," said my mate to me. 
 Bill was his brother, had charge of the plates 
 From Horsely's cutting to Whitefield gates, 
 
 And the two were as loving as brothers could be. 
 
 " On to Bill's length," said my mate again. 
 
 " I wonder if he has flung into line 
 
 That place by the bridge where we gave him the sign, 
 The run before last, to go up with his men. 
 
 " But here is the bridge." It had suddenly grown 
 Out of the mist. As we shot below 
 The arch, we hitch'd, and my mate cried, " Joe, 
 
 We must signal to Bill as we journey down." 
 
 Up rose the mist, and at last we could see 
 
 The signals at Colpey Junction clear. 
 
 " Take off the brake ; we have nothing to fear, 
 And put out the headlight," said Dick to me. 
 
 I went, but my face, as I hurried back. 
 
 Made him come to my side with a look of alarm. 
 " For God's sake," I cried, taking hold of his arm, 
 
 " Draw within the distant signals and slack."
 
 BILL'S LENGTH. 99 
 
 Off went the steam, and I hung by the brake ; 
 Two minutes, and we had our train at a stand, 
 I sprang down the steps, waving Dick with my hand 
 
 To keep back for a moment, just for my sake. 
 
 I rush'd to the front of the engine, and there, 
 With a feehng of sickening horror and dread, 
 Drew out from where it lay fix'd a head, 
 
 With the features half-cover'd with blood and hair. 
 
 I turn'd, and Dick (I can see him still) 
 Gave a look of horror and mute appeal, 
 Then moan'd as he stagger'd against the wheel, 
 
 " My God ! that's the head of my brother Bill." 
 
 Just as he said : Bill had been on the rail, 
 Ready to make out the day's repair, 
 And the mist coming down, we had unaware 
 
 Run him down, for we always drove fast with the mail. 
 
 Dick left the line, and it never was known 
 
 Where he went ; but often I think of that day. 
 And still by the bridge I can hear him say, 
 
 "We must signal to Bill as we journey down."
 
 loo SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE TIMES. 
 
 Come, fling for a moment, my fellows, 
 
 The pick and shovel aside. 
 And rise from the moil of our ten hours' toil 
 
 With a heart beating high with pride. 
 What though our mission can do without thought, 
 
 And the music and cunning of rhymes ; 
 Yet shame on that bosom that will not throb 
 
 To the spirit and march of the times. 
 
 Then, hurrah ! for this rough, firm earth of ours, 
 
 Like a lion half-roused from his den 
 She wakes up, and cries, while we whisper in fear, 
 
 " Let us hush her to sleep again." 
 But a voice from the very footstool of God 
 
 Cries, " Break her away from her thrall, 
 That our fellows may toss her from hand to hand, 
 
 As a juggler tosses his ball." 
 
 Come, then, let us thunder our watchword still, 
 " Make way for the tools and the man," 
 
 Let the rough hand work what the thought will shape 
 To its highest miraculous plan —
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE TIMES. loi 
 
 Till the gods, who loll at the edge of the stars, 
 
 Look down as we labour below, 
 And swear by their nectar these puppets beneath 
 
 Know at least how their planet should go. 
 
 Fling the span of the bridge o'er the foam of the sea, 
 
 Run shafts to the centre of earth. 
 Wrench the coal from her grasp to the light of the sun, 
 
 That the giant of steam may have birth. 
 Lay the pliant rail on her full broad breast, 
 
 That, swift as a lion springs, 
 The engine may hurtle and roar — the Danton 
 
 Of this wondrous new birth of things 1 
 
 Build the ship into being from stem to stern, 
 
 But not with wood as of yore, 
 But with iron plates that may laugh at the shock 
 
 Of the thunder hammer of Thor, 
 Let the sea swell up in his white-lipp'd wrath, 
 
 As the circling paddles fly. 
 And Neptune himself groan for want of room 
 
 Till the iron hulk goes by. 
 
 O, fellows, but this is a wondrous age, 
 
 When Science Avith faith in her eyes, 
 Springs up in her thirst from this planet of ours 
 
 To the stars in front of the skies.
 
 I03 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And we — we watch her as onward she ghdes 
 
 Leaving wonders behind her track. 
 Like a huntsman that jerks a hawk from his wrist, 
 
 But who will whistle her back ? 
 
 Ay, who ? for at length she has found her strength, 
 
 As a tiger's may come at the sup 
 Of the warm first blood, and his wild fierce mood 
 
 Like fire through his frame flashes up ; 
 So she, and we follow as onward she leads 
 
 With the flush of pride on her cheek. 
 And she makes us the greater men, though we work 
 
 In the wake of the Roman and Greek. 
 
 Shame rest on the bigot that thinks in his heart 
 
 She flings a blight on our creeds, 
 And darkens the light that we keep to guide 
 
 As we rush from the fable to deeds. 
 Out on such croakers ! with one white hand 
 
 She lifts her miracle rod 
 And strikes wherever we wish, while the other 
 
 Holds on by the garments of God. 
 
 The ages behind look like infants in sleep. 
 But those that look down on our time 
 
 Cry out with a hundred voices in one 
 To nourish them into prime.
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE TIMES. 103 
 
 And, God ! but we build them up to their strength, 
 
 As an eagle will rear her young, 
 But their giant force, springing up like a source, 
 
 Has never yet been sung. 
 
 Where shall he come from, the poet, whose fire 
 
 Shall place on his wild, rough page 
 The spirit that lurks and forever works 
 
 In the breast of this mighty age ? 
 Is he yet in the cycles that loom before, 
 
 Preparing his melody ? 
 Let him come, and roll through my heart and soul 
 
 His music before I die. 
 
 But now, while we wait for the roll of his words. 
 
 Let us work in our growing strength ; 
 For the earth in her cradle, since Adam died. 
 
 Is up from her slumber at length. 
 Ay, up ! in the cities that roar and fret 
 
 With the toil and the tread of men ; 
 And the sun shall be hurl'd from his course ere she sinks 
 
 To her second childhood again ! 
 
 Then, hurrah ! for our higher fellows that work 
 
 With this thought and its Titan powers, 
 And cut through the jungle of creeds and fools 
 
 A path for this planet of ours.
 
 I04 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And hurrah for this nineteenth century time — 
 What the future may grow and be ! 
 
 Ah, God ! to burst up from the slumber of death 
 For one wild moment to see !
 
 ON THE ENGINE AGAIN. 105 
 
 ON THE ENGINE AGAIN. 
 
 Once more on the mighty engine, boys, 
 
 \^''ith my hand on the driver's arm, 
 And again at his touch through each fire-leading vein 
 
 Throbs a flood of the hfe-giving charm. 
 Then away he speeds as a hght in the north 
 
 Shooting up makes the heavens grow pale ; 
 At my feet the glow and the beat of his heart, 
 
 And beneath them the ring of the rail. 
 
 Hurrah ! how each sweep of his lightning limb 
 
 Flashes swifter than that of the last, 
 Wiile, wild as the flight in a dream of the night. 
 
 The distance is galloping past. 
 On, on, with a madder desire in his breast 
 
 For the space that is yet to be run, 
 Till a dozen slim wires stretching out on my right 
 
 Seem to narrow and rush into one. 
 
 How my blood flushes up, hke wine dash'd in a cup. 
 
 At the headlong speed of his race, 
 While he shrieks in his glee, and looks back at me, 
 
 And flings his breath in my face.
 
 io6 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Half a world is left in the distance behind, 
 
 Yet he never slacks in his stride, 
 Nor a drop of sweat is seen glancing yet 
 
 On the iron girths of his side. 
 
 Hurrah ! I lean over and pat his neck, 
 
 As a rider might that of his horse, 
 While beat goes my heart like a Cyclops at work, 
 
 At this terrible acme of force. 
 I hear the ring of the rail, and the click 
 
 Of the joint, as he roars o'er his track. 
 And I shriek in my frenzy, " A steed for the gods 
 
 Or some Titan Mazeppa to back," 
 
 By heaven ! but this would have been the one 
 
 To have hurl'd with a snort and shriek 
 From the door of his temple, the battle car 
 
 Of the warrior god of the Greek ; 
 Or have led the front of those coursers that rush. 
 
 With the dawn like foam on their breast, 
 And whirl the sun, through a dust of clouds. 
 
 To his purple home in the west. 
 
 And I think that he fathoms my thoughts, for his form 
 
 Seems to wilder energy strung. 
 And gleams as might that of some serpent when he 
 
 Tightens up the last coil that he flung ;
 
 ON THE ENGINE AGAIN. 107 
 
 Or it may be, in wrath when he looks behind 
 
 To leap at the light-shapen elf, 
 And hurl him beneath the wild rush of his feet. 
 
 And take the reins to himself. 
 
 I turn, and lo ! with a flash and a glare 
 
 His breast is thrown open to see, 
 And I start in affright at the wild, fierce light 
 
 That is leaping to clutch at me. 
 Then I whisper, the bloodless fear on my lip, 
 
 As the flame tongues flicker and dance — 
 " God, he too has a fire round his heart, like those kings 
 
 In the Ebhs hall of romance !" 
 
 But this fire within him is the nerve in his limb, 
 
 And his pulse's hurry and shock. 
 As he toils, a man-made Prometheus, bound 
 
 To the rail instead of the rock. 
 The coward, he dare not slip from the line. 
 
 That is guiding his feet beneath. 
 For his soul would burst from him in gushes of flame. 
 
 Like a sword drawn in haste from its sheath. 
 
 So a trust without doubt in the lines leading out 
 
 The sinewy sweep of his length, 
 Keeps him still to their grasp, though his vigour within 
 
 Fain would lift him in frolic of strength.
 
 lo8 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Ah, me ! could I so keep true to my life 
 
 And the e;ood that would fain lead me on, 
 
 to 
 
 And turn my breast, like his own great chest, 
 To the war we must battle alone. 
 
 But this thought sinks away as I ask in my fear, 
 
 Will he never halt in his speed, 
 But rush onward and shriek his wild watchword, " Go on," 
 
 Like the Jew in the legend we read ? 
 No ! Far in the distance, in front of his goal, 
 
 Springs upward a finger of red, 
 And with a death-rattle of one wild snort 
 
 His flame-tortured spirit is dead. 
 
 And look ; can that fellow, just five feet eight, 
 
 With scarce a beard on his chin. 
 Can he, too, snatch at the slacks of the rein, 
 
 Till he groans as he tightens him in ? 
 He can. And this Vulcan of smoke and of flame. 
 
 With such a momentum of will, 
 Stands at last a grim smoky colossus in steel, 
 
 And two rail-lengths of muscle is still. 
 
 Ay, call me, the sneer lying deep on your lip, 
 
 The paler but cultured ape ; 
 Lord of the brute, with the soul of a brute, 
 
 And a cunning to fashion and shape.
 
 ON THE ENGINE AGAIN. 109 
 
 I turn from your creed to this miracled deed 
 
 We have set on twin pathways of rods ; 
 And I know that the new flings a blush on the old, 
 
 And that my fellows are gods. 
 
 H
 
 no SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 NOTTMAN. 
 
 That was Nottman waving at me, 
 
 But the steam fell clown, so you could not see ; 
 
 He is out to-day with the fast express, 
 
 And running a mile in the minute, I guess. 
 
 Danger? none in the least, for the way 
 Is good, though the curves are sharp as you say. 
 But bless you, when trains are a little behind, 
 They thunder around them — a match for the wind. 
 
 Nottman himself is a devil to drive, 
 
 But cool and steady, and ever alive 
 
 To whatever danger is looming in front. 
 
 When a train has run hard to gain time for a shunt. 
 
 But he once got a fear, though, that shook him with pain, 
 Like sleepers beneath the weight of a train. 
 I remember the story well, for, you see, 
 His stoker, Jack Martin, told it to me. 
 
 Nottman had sent down the wife for a change 
 To the old folks living at Riverly Grange,
 
 NOTTMAN. Ill 
 
 A quiet sleepy sort of a town, 
 
 Save when the engines went up and down. 
 
 For close behind it the railway ran 
 
 In a mile of a straight if a single span ; 
 
 Three bridges were over the straight, and between 
 
 Two the distant signal was seen. 
 
 She had with her her boy — a nice little chit 
 Full of romp and mischief, and childish wit, 
 And every time that we thunder'd by, 
 Both were out on the watch for Nottman and I, 
 
 "Well, one day," said Jack, "on our journey down. 
 Coming round on the straight at the back of the town, 
 I saw right ahead, in front of our track. 
 In the haze on the rail something dim-like and black. 
 
 " I look'd over at Nottman, but ere I could speak. 
 He shut off the steam, and with one wild shriek, 
 A whistle took to the air with a bound ; 
 But the object ahead never stirr'd at the sound. 
 
 " In a moment he flung himself down on his knee, 
 Leant over the side of the engine to see, 
 Took one look, then sprung up, crying, breathless and pale, 
 ' Brake, Jack, it is some one asleep on the rail !'
 
 112 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 " The rear brakes were whistled on in a trice 
 While I screw'd on the tender brake firm as a vice, 
 But still we tore on with this terrible thought 
 Sending fear to our hearts—' Can we stop her or not?' 
 
 " I took one look again, then sung out to my mate, 
 'We can never draw up, we have seen it too late.' 
 When, sudden and swift, like the change in a dream, 
 Nottman drew back the lever and flung on the steam. 
 
 " The great wheels stagger'd and span with the strain, 
 While the spray from the steam fell around us like rain, 
 But we slacken'd pur speed, till we saw with a wild 
 Throb at the heart, right before us, — a child ! 
 
 " It was lying asleep on the rail, with no fear 
 Of the terrible death that was looming so near ; 
 The sweat on us both broke as cold as the dew 
 Of death as we question'd — ' What can we do ?' 
 
 " It was done — swift as acts that take place in a dream — 
 Nottman rush'd to the front and knelt down on the beam, 
 Put one foot in the couplings ; the other he kept 
 Right in front of the wheel for the child that still slept. 
 
 " ' Saved !' I burst forth, my heart leaping with pride, 
 For one touch of the foot sent the child to the side,
 
 NOTTMAN. 113 
 
 But Nottman look'd up, his lips white as with foam, 
 * My God, Jack,' he cried, ' It's my own little Tom ! ' 
 
 " He shrunk, would have slipp'd, but one grasp of my hand, 
 Held him firm till the engine was brought to a stand, 
 Then I heard from behind a shriek take to the air. 
 And I knew that the voice of a mother was there. 
 
 " The boy was all right, had got off with a scratch : 
 He had crept through the fence in his frolic to watch 
 For his father ; but, wearied with mischief and play, 
 Had fallen asleep on the rail where he lay. 
 
 " For days after that on our journey down, 
 
 Ere we came to the straight at the back of the town. 
 
 As if the signal were up with its gleam 
 
 Of red, Nottman always shut off the steam,"
 
 114 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 DUNCAN WEIR. 
 
 Back on the wrong line, that was all, 
 Back in the morning, dusky and drear. 
 
 Simple enough such a thing you may call. 
 But it cost us the life of Duncan Weir. 
 
 He was our mate for many a day ; 
 
 Never a steadier man on the line, 
 First at his work on the iron way, 
 
 Whether the morning was stormy or fine. 
 
 Quiet, yet fond of a laugh and a joke, 
 
 Though at times he took other moods, and then 
 He would only look up for a five minutes' smoke. 
 
 Then take to the shovel and pick again. 
 
 We liked him, for Duncan was kind of heart. 
 And a kindly heart has a kindly speech, 
 
 But one dreary morning put us apart. 
 
 And our mate was forever out of our reach. 
 
 I was standing that morning a pace from the door. 
 When up came one of our men and said.
 
 •DUNCAN WEIR. 115 
 
 " Ready ! for Duncan is on before," 
 
 So we took to the rail Avith a hasty tread. 
 
 But just as we stood on the top of the bank, 
 
 Three white hghts at once through the darkness burst ; 
 
 And with steady, oily, monotonous clank. 
 An engine shot past us with tender first. 
 
 I half leapt over the bank as the glare 
 
 Of the head-light beckon'd along the track. 
 
 Then taking one look — " That is old Tom Blair, 
 And he's back on the wrong line," I said to Jack. 
 
 " Blair?" echoed Jack, and he turn'd to me, 
 "Yes ! for the lamps made his number plain, ■ 
 He has been to the tank for water, you see. 
 
 And come down on the wrong line in front of his train." 
 
 We stood till the engine was out of our view. 
 
 Then I felt at my heart the chill touch of a fear ; 
 
 My mate said nothing, though well I knew. 
 Like myself he was thinking of Duncan Weir, 
 
 For Duncan, who always had ways of his own. 
 From his very first start on the line, took pains 
 
 To walk to and back from his work when alone, 
 On the four-feet way, with his face to the trains.
 
 n6 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 We bent with a hasty footstep our way 
 
 Down the Hne, till, at once with a clutch of the hand, 
 My mate drew me back to where something lay 
 
 Dim and dark in the four-feet, just where you stand. 
 
 My heart beat fast as I leapt the rail ; 
 
 One touch was enough, and with wild affright, 
 I said in a voice that was like to fail, 
 
 " My God, it is Duncan ; run back for a light." 
 
 "When the lamp came up, and its light was shed. 
 Like a great round flashing eye on the place. 
 
 There was our old mate Duncan, — dead — 
 Struck from behind, for he lay on his face. 
 
 Well, little was said — just a question or two 
 
 At the driver. But all taking place in the dark 
 
 Gave him room to deny, so it past from view, 
 And all that is left is that simple mark. 
 
 Just his name on the fence — take a step this way, — • 
 You can see it from here with the day and date, 
 
 When old Tom Blair, while the morning was grey, 
 Came back on the wrong line and kill'd our mate.
 
 THE BROWN GIANT. 117 
 
 THE BROWN GIANT. 
 
 Hurrah for this rough brown giant of ours ! 
 
 He stood by the side of God 
 When the stars were shot from His strong right hand 
 
 To the height of their pure abode ; 
 When this grand firm planet we tread upon 
 
 Rose upward formless and dim, 
 And knelt on its knee with its hands in the air 
 
 As they sang their morning hymn. 
 
 Hurrah for this rough brown giant of ours ! 
 
 He stood by the side of man 
 As he rose in the shape of the Master himself, 
 
 With a boundless cunning to plan. 
 Then God said, looking and smiling at each, 
 
 And laying His hands on the two, 
 ** Go forth ; I have only roughen'd the earth, 
 
 I have left the rest for yQu." 
 
 Then the two came forth to this earth of ours. 
 
 The giant still led like a child. 
 And wherever he bent his back the earth 
 
 Look'd up in his face and smiled.
 
 ii8 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And goodly harvests of grain grew up, 
 
 And the red swift wine was quafPd, 
 Till it warm'd the heart of the giant, who sang 
 
 And held his sides, and laugh'd. 
 
 Then cities rose up at his magic touch, 
 
 Till the earth was like to groan, 
 For the fair green sod was cut through with a load 
 
 Of a million streets of stone. 
 And a multitudinous tramp of feet 
 
 Went surging up and down ; 
 Ho, ho, and the giant leapt up in his glee, 
 
 For his muscles had shaped the town ! 
 
 Then he taught the puppets who stood by his knee 
 
 The cunning that slumbers in fire, 
 Till they bent the iron as willows are bent. 
 
 To each shape of their boundless desire ; 
 But his great heart leapt with a bound to his throat, 
 
 And his grim brows whiten'd with fear, 
 When they drew from their gleaming scabbards of fire 
 
 The mighty sword and spear. 
 
 Then his eyes grew sad with a gloom, and he shrank 
 
 Till he scarce could draw his breath, 
 As he saw, rank'd up in their terrible files, 
 
 Men eager for slaughter and death.
 
 THE BROWN GIANT. 119 
 
 But at last when they met Hke two whirlwinds in hell, 
 
 And the spouting blood reek'd red, 
 With his broad rough hand as a blind on his eyes, 
 
 He turn'd in terror, and fled. 
 
 Then he sat him down full of black despair. 
 
 And he groan'd as he bent his eyes. 
 For he saw that his very footsteps were red 
 
 With the hue that darkens and dyes. 
 He sat like one from whose veins the tide 
 
 Of full strong life had shrunk ; 
 And his long black hair fell down on his face, 
 
 While his head on his bosom sunk. 
 
 But he sprung to his feet, and he dash'd his hair 
 
 At one wild sweep from his brow ; 
 " What a coward," he said, " to sink thus in my dread, 
 
 And this planet awaiting me now. 
 Have I not on my shoulder the finger of God, 
 
 As he laid it on that of the man ? 
 If he strikes into pathways that devils have made 
 
 I, at least, will stand true to the plan." 
 
 So with strong full heart he stood in the mart, 
 
 Till up to his very knees 
 The treasures of earth lay like sunset in heaps. 
 
 He was lord of the lordless seas.
 
 I20 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 " Hurrah, hurrah !" and his breath came quick, 
 While he shouted aloud in his glee, 
 
 " The king with a million men at his beck 
 Is never a king like me." 
 
 But when he struck forth with his strong right hand, 
 
 And the temple rose upward on high. 
 He bared his forehead, and knelt on his knee, 
 
 For he knew that his Master was nigh. 
 He seem'd, as the smile of God fell upon him, 
 
 Kneeling and bowing there, 
 A grand, stern, all miraculous form 
 
 Of Labour and Worship at prayer. 
 
 But when he stood by the sculptor, and saw 
 
 An angel step from the stone, 
 Or the mighty shape of some god that rose 
 
 In its godship calm and alone — 
 His heart came and went at each deft chisel stroke. 
 
 But his brow wore a doubt as he said, 
 " Here is toil of a higher kind than my own, 
 
 Where God steps in in my stead." 
 
 He stood by the painter, who, busy with dreams, 
 
 And a grand glow lighting his eyes. 
 Made his canvas a mirror that took in the earth 
 
 As a lake takes the stars and the skies.
 
 THE BROWN GIANT. 121 
 
 Or, soaring upward alone with his soul, 
 
 Away from the shadow and mist, 
 Brought down with a brow full of heaven's own light, 
 
 The grand pure features of Christ. 
 
 He turn'd from the painter and sculptor, who wrought 
 
 In the light common men may not see. 
 And with low voice whisper'd — " The work of the two 
 
 Belongs to a higher than me. 
 There is something divine which is out of my reach. 
 
 Yet it may be mine, but, till then, 
 I know I can stand with no fear of a lord 
 
 In the rush of toiling men." 
 
 He shaped the bridge till its footstep of stone 
 
 Stept over the wave at one stride ; 
 He fashion'd whatever had shadow of use 
 
 For man to keep by his side. 
 The great brown giant look'd at his arms 
 
 And his broad brow glisten'd with sweat, 
 But still, in the depths of his bosom, he felt 
 
 There was something to fashion yet. 
 
 He stood lost in thought till the light in his eyes 
 By his broad grim brows was o'ercast, 
 
 Then he drew himself up to his height, as he cried, 
 " I have found my best triumph at last."
 
 122 . SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Then the smoke of the furnace-fire grew dark, 
 And the heavens were deaf with the din 
 
 Of hammer and anvil, where glowing and swart 
 The giant was toiling within. 
 
 At length, when his task was over, he stood 
 
 With his strong arms over his breast, 
 As if to keep down the wild pride of his heart 
 
 That not for one moment could rest. 
 " Ho, here I have made you a monster of fire ! 
 
 One whose muscles can shrink not nor fail ;" 
 And, with one wild rush, like a stroke from the gods. 
 
 The engine leapt to the rail. 
 
 And with three sharp snorts, as a test of his strength. 
 
 He bent himself to each load, 
 Till his black limbs quiver'd, as quiver the veins 
 
 When the hot blood leaps in a god ; 
 And wherever he stamp'd with his merciless hoof 
 
 The earth, as if terror-struck, said — 
 " Here is one who will never give heed to the rein 
 
 Till he circles my bounds with his tread." 
 
 A flush lay like fire on the giant's cheek, 
 
 And a deep glow lit up his eye. 
 As at every heave of the monster's lungs 
 
 A column of smoke took the sky.
 
 THE BROWN GIANT. 123 
 
 But when he drew near for a moment to view 
 
 The red flame licking his heart, 
 And coiHng and twisting hke snakes when they sting 
 
 The giant leapt back with a start. 
 
 Then a gloom lay like mist on his brow, and he said, 
 
 As if doubt had come backward again, — 
 " I have made them a steed they can harness at will. 
 
 What more can I fashion for men ? 
 They may struggle and conquer, the gods of this earth ! 
 
 Yet whatever their miracles be. 
 Let them know that the fingers of God are on them. 
 
 As I feel them this moment on me." 
 
 Then hurrah for this rough brown giant of ours ! 
 
 He stood with God in His place 
 When the stars like a million silver drops 
 
 Were hung in the azure of space. 
 And hurrah ! when he came with a firm free step 
 
 To stand beside man on the soil, 
 To head like a Titan Napoleon still 
 
 The bloodless battles of toil.
 
 124 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 RAILWAY DREAMINGS. 
 
 I WORK upon the line to-day, 
 The rails on either side of me, 
 
 But all my fancies wing their way, 
 Like swallows flying out to sea. 
 
 And ever as they speed, I dream 
 Of all the coming thousand things 
 
 That time will herald with a beam 
 Of light from off his windless \vings : 
 
 What changes in the great to Be 
 Evolving broad, and far, and grand, 
 
 What faiths by which our kind shall see 
 That spinning creeds is spinning sand 
 
 What worlds we dare not dream of now, 
 When Science with her eagle ken 
 
 Holds a white hand above her brow 
 To bring them nearer unto men : 
 
 Wlien all the canker and the pride 
 Shall sink, and all the good in store
 
 RAILWAY DREAMINGS. 125 
 
 ^\'ill work and toil with us, and glide 
 Like Christ, among the lowly poor : 
 
 When war, a red and sulky hell 
 
 Upbursting through the green of earth, 
 
 Shall sink for ever, but to dwell 
 In chaos where it first had birth : 
 
 When all the lower man is sunk, 
 
 To leave him as of old again, 
 Ere that one taint had made him drunk 
 
 With the wild wine that devils drain : 
 
 What songs whose melody shall start 
 
 The higher music pure and free, 
 In poets hymning strong of heart 
 
 The labour Epics that will be. 
 
 Then the great brotherhood of man 
 
 Will sing its universal psalm, 
 And Peace from paradise again 
 
 Come smiling underneath the palm. 
 
 Ay, speed the time when, strong of breath 
 
 And heart that not a fear can quail, 
 We keep to all the higher faith 
 
 As the wild engine keeps the rail :
 
 126 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 When, brain and heart no longer twain, 
 We work — God's sky above us blue — 
 " Stand clear, man, for that Pullman train. 
 Not twenty lengths of rail from you ! " 
 
 I leap aside, the train roars past. 
 And all my fancies, worn and sick. 
 
 Come slowly back, to die at last 
 In the sharp raspings of the pick.
 
 THE GODS AND THE WINDS. 127 
 
 THE GODS AND THE WINDS. 
 
 The still gods, though they move apart 
 From interchange of thoughts with men, 
 
 Yearn to come down, and, in the mart, 
 Rub shoulders with them once again. 
 
 And help them in each fearless deed, 
 When Science with serenest eyes 
 
 Lays a white finger on each need. 
 
 While Thought springs forward to devise. 
 
 " We won our godship far too young," 
 They moan with an Immortal's woe ; 
 
 " Our mighty strength is all unstrung 
 In shame when we look down below. 
 
 " The vigour of our limb is weak. 
 Our pulses move as with a load, 
 And only place upon our cheek 
 
 That burning spot which shames a god." 
 
 The keen winds send their voices up, 
 They whistle past each lonely star ;
 
 128 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 The gods pause ere they Hft the cup, 
 As held back by some sudden bar. 
 
 " Keep to your halls," the rough winds say, 
 " Nor overstep your starry pale, 
 Ye could not for one moment play 
 With the wild engine on the rail ; 
 
 " Nor even match, tliough keen and strong, 
 And all aglow with swiftest fire, 
 That silent speed which hurls along 
 The far word lightnings of the wire. 
 
 " For men have bound the giant brain 
 
 To use, and with swift hands they bring 
 Wild untaught things they slowly train, 
 That after into wonders spring. 
 
 "Which, leaping at one bound, the bar 
 Of use and wont, enclasp the earth, 
 That trembles at such sudden war, 
 And reels into its second birth, 
 
 " Then life in all its new-found glow 
 Wakes up, and with a certain hand 
 Seizes the wand of Prospero, 
 That magic may be in the land.
 
 THE GODS AND THE WINDS. 129 
 
 " So men dive, in their wild designs, 
 
 Far down, and, in the earth's deep night, 
 Battle until, like slaves, the mines 
 
 Pour forth their treasures to the light. 
 
 " And great wild engines black with smoke 
 Roar on along the rail, or urge 
 With clank, and pant, and sullen stroke, 
 A thousand riches through the surge. 
 
 " So keep your halls, nor fret, nor moan 
 That ye can never come again, 
 A second godship is not won 
 
 Among these nineteenth century men." 
 
 Thus the bold winds against the sky 
 Uplift their voices wild and strong, — 
 
 The gods, still moaning, make reply, 
 " We won our godship far too young."
 
 130 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 STOOD AT CLEAR. 
 
 "Where is Adams?" that was the cry, 
 " Let us question him before he die." 
 
 Naught around in the night was seen 
 
 Save the gUmmer of lamps, where the crash had been. 
 
 Right across the six-feet way, 
 
 One huge hulk, engine and tender lay. 
 
 While the wailing hiss of the steam took the air, 
 By fits, like the low, dull tone of despair. 
 
 But still above all, rose that one clear cry — 
 " Speak to Adams before he die." 
 
 " Here," I said, " turn your lamps on me," 
 And I laid Jim's head upon my knee. 
 
 " Jim, old mate," I said in his ear, 
 
 "They will ask you a question — can you hear?" 
 
 Then I saw through the grime that was on his face, 
 A white hue coming with slow, sure pace ;
 
 STOOD AT CLEAR. 131 
 
 And upon his brow by the hght of the lamp, 
 Other dew than the night's lay heavy and damp. 
 
 " Speak to him — quick ! " they bent and said, 
 "Did the distant signal stand at red?" 
 
 Broken and slow came the words with a moan, 
 " Stood — at — clear," and poor Jim was gone. 
 
 I turn'd my head away from the light 
 
 To hide the tears that were blinding my sight. 
 
 And pray'd from my heart, to God that Jim 
 Might find heaven's signals clear to him.
 
 132 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 OLD WYLIE'S STONE. 
 
 You want to see Wylie's stone — look here ; 
 But stop where you are till the line is clear ; 
 Pullman express from the south is due, 
 And will be here in a moment or two. 
 
 Here she is, coming round the curve, 
 Sudden and swift, and with never a swerve ; 
 And a whirl of smoke that you scarce can see, 
 The driver waving his hand at me. 
 
 You see at the foot of the slope down there 
 That stone from the grass and moss laid bare. 
 That was the spot where Wylie lay, 
 When the engine pitch'd him over that day. 
 
 We were working here, for the levels change, 
 And the metals often get out of range : 
 The wind was high, and we scarce could hear 
 The trains till they whistled within our ear. 
 
 Well, we just had finish'd with our repairs. 
 And were sorting the ballast about the chairs,
 
 OLD WYLIE'S STONE. 133 
 
 When the afternoon goods, about half-an-hour late, 
 Came round upon us as steady as fate. 
 
 We stood clear of both lines, and were watching the train 
 Coming up with a full head of steam on the strain, 
 When all at once one of our men gave a shout — 
 There's a shovel against the rail ! Look out ! 
 
 The shovel was Wylie's, and swift as a wink, 
 He sprang into the four feet with never a shrink ; 
 Clutch'd it : but ere he could clear the track. 
 The buffer beam hit him ria;ht in the back. 
 
 ^o^ 
 
 In a moment poor Wylie was over the slope. 
 And we after him, but with little of hope ; 
 Found him close by the stone, with his grip firm set 
 On the shovel that cost him his life to get. 
 
 We lifted him up, and as light as we could. 
 Bore him home to his cot you see over the wood ; 
 Stood by his bed, each with pent-up breath, 
 As we saw the steady advance of death. 
 
 But just ere it came he lifted his hand, 
 Made a motion we could not but understand, 
 So we drew nearer to him as he lay. 
 To hear what our mate had got to say.
 
 134 SONGS OF THE RAIL 
 
 " Wylie," I said, and he open'd his eyes, 
 With a look of faint, far-off surprise ; 
 Then, clasping my hand, he strove to speak, 
 As his ebbing breath wax'd slow and weak. 
 
 At length, as I almost bent my head 
 To his lips, in a strange weird whisper, he said — 
 " Call the spot where I lay old Wylie's stone ! " 
 That was all he said, and our mate was gone. 
 
 So we call it "WyHe's stone" to this day. 
 To mark to strangers the spot where he lay ; 
 You can see the very wild flowers from here 
 Growing round it. We planted them there last year.
 
 THE CUCKOO. 135 
 
 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Amid the sound of picks to-day, 
 And shovels rasping on the rail, 
 
 A sweet voice came from far away, 
 From out a gladly greening vale. 
 
 My mate look'd up in some surprise ; 
 
 I half stopp'd humming idle rhyme : 
 Then said, the moisture in my eyes, 
 
 " The cuckoo, Jack, for the first time." 
 
 How sweet he sang ! I could have stood 
 For hours, and heard that simple strain ; 
 
 An early gladness throng'd my blood, 
 And brought my boyhood back again. 
 
 The primrose took a deeper hue, 
 The dewy grass a greener look ; 
 
 The violet wore a deeper blue, 
 A lighter music led the brook. 
 
 Each thing to its own depth was stirr'd, 
 Leaf, flower, and heaven's moving cloud.
 
 136 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 As still he piped, that stranger bird, 
 His mellow May-song clear and loud. 
 
 Would I could see him as he sings, 
 When, as if thought and act were one, 
 
 He came ; the grey on neck and wings 
 Turn'd white against the happy sun. 
 
 I knew his well-known sober flight, 
 That boyhood made so dear to me ; 
 
 And, blessings on him ! he stopp'd in sight, 
 And sang where I could hear and see. 
 
 Two simple notes were all he sang, 
 And yet my manhood fled away ; 
 
 Dear God ! The earth is always young, 
 And I am young with it to-day. 
 
 A wondrous realm of early joy 
 Grew all around as I became 
 
 Among my mates a bearded boy, 
 
 That could have wept but for the shame. 
 
 For all my purer life, now dead, 
 Rose up, fair-fashion'd, at the call 
 
 Of that grey bird, whose voice had shed 
 The charm of boyhood over all.
 
 THE CUCKOO. 137 
 
 O early hopes and sweet spring tears ! 
 
 That heart has never known its prime 
 That stands without a tear and hears 
 
 The cuckoo's voice for the first time.
 
 138 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 THE DEAD LARK. 
 
 On the slope, half-hid in grass, and right beneath the 
 
 sounding wire, 
 Lay the Lark, the sweetest singer in the Heavenly Father's 
 
 choir, 
 Dead, no more to thrill the heavens with his music long and 
 
 loud, 
 Coming from the sunny silence, moving on the fleecy cloud. 
 Tenderly the thing I lifted, smooth'd the ruffle on his breast. 
 That had still'd the beat of life, and sent his singing soul to 
 
 rest. 
 O what melodies unutter'd, lyrics of the happiest praise. 
 Lay within my hands, forever useless to the summer days. 
 Then I thought a want would wander, like a strangely jarring 
 
 tone 
 Through the singing choir, and only to be mark'd of God 
 
 alone. 
 For we muffle up our vision, seeing not for earthly stain 
 All that He in wisdom fashions for His glory and our gain. 
 And as still I stood and held him, in the sunshine overhead 
 Sang and shook his merry fellows, heedless of their brother 
 
 dead ;
 
 THE DEAD LARK. 139 
 
 Then my heart was stirr'd within me as I heard them at 
 
 their song, 
 For I deem'd their touch of music did this Httle fellow 
 
 wrong, 
 And my tears came slowly upward, as a low sweet undertone 
 Whisper'd to me, " Thus forever sing the thoughtless of thy 
 
 own. 
 Far into the realms of Fancy soar they in their sounding 
 
 flight, 
 Heeding not below some brother with a wing of feebler 
 
 might. 
 Yet the same sweet aspirations throb through all the songs 
 
 he sings, 
 And the same deep impulse yearning for the better human 
 
 things. 
 But his voice, like sounds in twilight, echoes but to die away, 
 While the deep heart throbbing in him fain would burst into 
 
 the day. 
 But his higher fellows hear not, listen not its earnest tone. 
 That comes out in simple sound between the pauses of their 
 
 own. 
 So he pines away in silence, keeping back the tide of song, 
 Till the rush and fret within him works at last its end in 
 
 wrong ; 
 And he, seeing beyond the promise of a better kindred band, 
 Dies, his bosom full of lyrics, like the lark's within my hand."
 
 I40 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Waking up, the day's set labour still'd the fancies in my 
 
 breast, 
 So I laid the fallen minstrel into his unnoticed rest, 
 Left him and the music with him lying in his grassy bed 
 To the carol of his fellows and the sunshine overhead.
 
 JIM DALLEY. 141 
 
 JIM DALLEY. 
 
 " So you knew Dalley that used to drive 
 That spanking old engine — fifty-five ;" 
 Knew him ? why, Dalley was my mate, 
 He died beside me upon the plate. 
 
 Let me see, it is over two years ago 
 
 Since Thorley's cutting was block'd with snow, 
 
 What a night was that, and how heavy our shift 
 
 To get in witli our train through the storm and drift. 
 
 But Jim and I did it ; we always had luck 
 
 To get through, though the rest of our fellows stuck. 
 
 Came in with their train about half-a-day late 
 
 To learn of the sudden death of my mate. 
 
 Brave rough Jim ! I can see him to-day 
 As if he never had pass'd away ; 
 Hear the very sound of his voice as he said, 
 " Are the junction signals set at red ? " 
 
 We were out that night on the goods that ran through. 
 Running sharp, for our speed was what steam could do, 
 
 K
 
 142 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 But from time to time, as we look'd behind, 
 
 Like a great white sheet came the snow on the wind. 
 
 We had just two shunts ; the last for the mail — 
 She was late, for already upon the rail 
 The snow lay thick, but she thunder'd past 
 Like a great, red, smoky ghost in the blast. 
 
 " Now," said Jim, "we have nothing to fear 
 If we catch the rest of the signals clear." 
 So he flung on the steam, and with one loud roar, 
 We went plunging into the storm once more. 
 
 The snow fell on either side, and the wire 
 Moan'd, as if harping on some desire, 
 While above, as the furnace threw up its light, 
 Was a whirling cover of black and white. 
 
 'a 
 
 The signals glimmer'd a faint green spark. 
 Far up as if somewhere within the dark, 
 The engine wheels had a ghostly sound. 
 As they struck and scatter'd the snow around. 
 
 The trains on the up line seem'd to glow 
 With a misty halo of drift and snow, 
 While a wave from their drivers as they flew 
 Was like a wave from a ghost to our view.
 
 JIM D ALLEY. 143 
 
 But still we tore on with no wish to fail, 
 Though the great wheels clank'd and slipp'd on tlie rail ; 
 But I kept up the steam while Jim look'd out 
 Into the dark with a fear and a doubt. 
 
 By this we had left behind Mossley Bank, 
 And had reach'd the summit at Riverley Jank, 
 " Down hill after this," I sung over to Jim ; 
 But he stood in his place, never stirring a limb. 
 
 At length on his stepping backward a pace 
 The light of the tube lamp fell on his face, 
 It was white as if with unspoken fear. 
 As he turn'd and said, " Bob, come over here." 
 
 ''Why, what is the matter?" I said, as I stood 
 Beside him, but Jim was again in the mood 
 Of staring ahead ; at last he awoke. 
 And laying his hand on my shoulder sjDoke. 
 
 " All the night. Bob, from the time we lay through 
 For the mail, this sight has been in my view, 
 And right ahead in the snow I can see 
 My wife with her youngest upon her knee. 
 
 " I see her sitting as if on the wait 
 For me, and before her a fireless grate,
 
 144 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 She is weeping and wringing her hands as in pain ; 
 My God ! I wish we were home with our train." 
 
 I tried to cheer him, and spoke of his fear 
 As a whim from which he would soon get clear, 
 But again he was standing upright in his place, 
 With the same pale, weary look on his face. 
 
 I felt myself shudder as if with a chill, 
 Or a nameless dread of some coming ill, 
 But I kept myself up to be ready to catch 
 The signals my mate was not fit to watch. 
 
 What a weary drive through the storm that rung 
 Before and behind us as onward we swung. 
 But at last in the distance we caught a gleam, 
 " Home at last," said Jim, and flung off the steam. 
 
 We ran through the points and drew up in the lye. 
 My mate still gazing ahead, while I, 
 Glad to think he soon would get rid of his fright, 
 Leapt off to uncouple our train for the night. 
 
 " Now then, old fellow, go on," I cried ; 
 Coming back from the tender — no voice replied. 
 And looking upward I saw that he leant 
 Forward against the window half bent.
 
 JIM DALLEY. 145 
 
 One moment and I was upon the plate 
 With my hand on the shoulder of my mate, 
 "Jim ?" No answer. I lifted his head — 
 Dalley lay over the levers dead.
 
 146 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 WHAT THE ENGINE SAYS. 
 
 What does the mighty engine say, 
 
 RolUng along 
 
 Swift and strong, 
 Slow or fast as his driver may, 
 Hour by hour, and day by day, 
 
 His swarthy side 
 
 Aglow with pride, 
 And his muscles of sinewy steel ablaze ? 
 
 This is what the engine says : 
 
 First his breath gives a sudden snort, 
 As if a spasm had cut it short. 
 
 Then with one wild note 
 
 To clear his throat, 
 He fumes and whistles — " Get out of my way, 
 What are you standing there for — say ? 
 
 Fling shovel and pick 
 
 Away from you, quick ! 
 Ere my gleaming limbs with out-reaching clutch 
 Draw you into your death with a single touch. 
 For what care I for a puppet or two, 
 A httle over five feet like you ?
 
 WHAT THE ENGINE SAYS. 147 
 
 I must rush to the city with one long stride, 
 Add a wave of men to the streets' wild tide, 
 
 Bring friends to friends, 
 
 And gather the ends 
 Of all the trailing threads of use, 
 So that no single ply may be loose. 
 Run in the front of trafhc, and shape 
 
 A way for its thousand feet, and fling 
 This planet into fashioning. 
 That others unknown to us may ape. 
 
 So I say, 
 
 Stand clear from the way." 
 
 " O, well," I said, 
 
 And I shook my head, 
 But all the while taking care to clear 
 The Avay, for the iron fellow so near. 
 " You carry things just a little too far, 
 For great, and swarthy, and strong as you are, 
 With the strength of a hundred Titans within 
 Your seething breast with its fiery din. 
 And your iron plates that serve you for skin, 
 With a single twitch 
 Of this crow-bar, 
 I could make you welter within the ditch. 
 As if Jove himself had open'd war ;
 
 148 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 So you see 
 You must pay a little respect to me. 
 
 I keep the rail 
 Tight and firm with chair and key, 
 Fasten the joints as firm as may be 
 
 So that your pathway may not fail. 
 Why, if I twitch'd a rail from the chairs, 
 Where would you be ? At your smoky prayers, 
 
 Lying alone. 
 With only strength to mutter a groan, 
 And fifty fellows about my size 
 Scrambling upon you with shouts and cries. 
 Till they get you bound up in a coil of chains — 
 Click goes the jack, and rasp the crane. 
 What a labour to get you up again ! 
 
 " Why, when your feet are once clear of the rail, 
 You're as weak as an infant and as frail ; 
 
 Now look again, 
 You are panting and snorting as if in disdain, 
 For the fever of fire leaps like mad in your breast, 
 Toiling and seething, 
 And fuming and breathing. 
 Yet always bent upon spoiling your rest. 
 But look at your driver — one touch of his hand 
 Makes you stop or go on as he likes to command.
 
 WHAT THE ENGINE SAYS. 149 
 
 Talk of your strength ! 
 Why, not to go to the utmost length, 
 I could almost blush if I had to speak " 
 
 Here he gives a sudden shriek. 
 
 And a wild long bound 
 
 That shakes the ground, 
 Then clearing his dusky throat to speak, 
 
 « 
 
 He pauses as if to gather strength, 
 Then hoarsely thunders out at length : 
 
 " So you want me to bow to you, 
 
 And to give you praise for the little you do. 
 
 Why, if I, 
 
 As I thunder by 
 Thought that you had such a whim in your head, 
 I would hurl right and left the rails that I tread 
 In utter contempt of your paltry pride, 
 That is making you think " 
 
 " Stop a moment," I cried, 
 " You are taking me up just a little too quick," 
 And here I flung down at my feet the pick, 
 " You are the thought and the force of my kind. 
 
 The monster of fire. 
 
 Whose boundless desire 
 Clutches at all — nay, the very mind
 
 ISO SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 Of this iron age 
 
 Is heard in your rage. 
 But here I stand as a help to you, 
 Proud of the task which I have to do, 
 Yet a touch of pride made me let you see, 
 That great as you are you depend on me. 
 Come, own at once you were hasty and strong, 
 And I'll sing your terrible strength in a song." 
 
 Here he thought for a moment, and then 
 With a snort and a whistle, his mighty limb 
 
 Clutch'd at the rail 
 
 That was like to fail, 
 Then as if thought had come back to him 
 He cried, " The world and toiling men 
 Great and small are bound in one chain. 
 Each must help each or they work in vain ; 
 So here with a whistle I own I was wrong, 
 And start when you like to sing your song." 
 
 That was what the engine said, 
 
 With a whoop and a hail 
 
 As he kept the rail, 
 Butting space backward with his head.
 
 THE WIRES. 151 
 
 THE WIRES. 
 
 I LAY beneath the long sHm wires, 
 And heard them murmur hke desires, 
 Till, drowsy with the heat, my thoughts 
 
 Set out, like errant knights to find 
 A land of dreams, and sunny spots 
 
 That have no visit of the wind. 
 And as they went, with restless choice, 
 Lo ! the wires above took voice. 
 
 First Wire. 
 
 I bear through the air 
 Like the breath of despair 
 Desolation and famine and dread. 
 
 For two nations uprising led onward by hate, 
 Clutch at each other mid heaps of the dead, 
 While the black lips of cannon belch forth with a yell. 
 And a hissing that withers and darkens like fate. 
 The vomit of hell. 
 
 Second Wire. 
 
 Soft and low 
 
 Let my message be spoken.
 
 152 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 To a mother that hears 
 With a grief that hath no tears, 
 How her only son is stricken down 
 In the wild heart of the reckless town, 
 Where life is as full as a river's flow, 
 Then come away, 
 For who would delay. 
 When a wailing heart is broken ? 
 
 Third Wire. 
 
 I flash to a people over the sea 
 A mighty truth that will make them free. 
 For kindred spirits transmit to each 
 The God-given truths they have sworn to preach. 
 Death to all tyranny and wrong, 
 Which poets wither with their song, 
 Let men be free in the glorious light 
 Of a brotherhood that sees and smites 
 The Hydra broods that fain would clutch 
 
 The throat of devil-defying Right ; 
 Cut them down, they are nought but blights, 
 God himself is aweary of such. 
 
 Fourth Wire. 
 
 My message is from one who fled 
 
 Long years ago. They thought him dead,
 
 THE WIRES. . 153 
 
 So in their hearts they dug a grave, 
 
 And laid in thought therein their boy, 
 
 He is coming home to clasp their hands : 
 I almost feel from here their joy. 
 
 Fifth Wire. 
 A sudden and great commercial crash 
 Like a current of doom is in my flash, 
 And thousands will put their hands to-day 
 On a bubble that winds will blow away. 
 
 Sixth Wire. 
 A sound of bells is in my tone, 
 
 Of marriage bells so glad and gay, 
 It comes straight from the heart of one 
 
 A thousand weary miles away. 
 O sweet to see in a foreign land 
 An English bride by the altar stand, 
 Her eyelids wet with tears that seem 
 Like dews that herald some sweet dream. 
 As, blushing, she falters forth the " yes," 
 That opens a world of happiness ; 
 But hush, this is all I have got to say — 
 " Harry and I were married to-day." 
 
 Seventh Wire. 
 I rush in the very front of time 
 With a finger pointing at sudden crime,
 
 154 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 The fool ! when the deed was done and he stood 
 Looking down at his hands, that were red with blood, 
 Never thought for a single moment on me, 
 But my mark was on him as he turn'd to flee. 
 
 Eighth Wire. 
 
 I fling on men a sudden gloom and pain, 
 In quiet hamlet and in toiling town, 
 Their greatest and their noblest man is down ; 
 
 Death conquers ; but his triumph is in vain. 
 For as I flash the news, as one draws breath 
 But swifter, so the dead man's Christ-like aim 
 Will flash tike fire into their hearts, and claim 
 
 A newer meaning from this touch of death. 
 
 The voices ceased, and half dreaming still 
 In the drowsy shade of the slope, I thought 
 
 " Eight wires have murmur'd their good and ill — 
 There are nine, but the ninth has spoken not ; 
 
 What can the burden be of its rhyme 
 
 When it speaks?" and I had not long to wait. 
 
 Ninth Wire. 
 Limited mail is sharp at her time, 
 
 But the Pullman is twenty minutes late.
 
 BOB CRUIKSHANKS. 155 
 
 BOB CRUIKSHANKS. 
 
 This is what Bob Cruikshanks said, 
 With a doubtful shake of the head, 
 
 And an oily hand that began to feel 
 Round the fringes of his beard so red, 
 
 As he leant against the driving-wheel. 
 
 " In the roar of the engine upon the rail, 
 
 Which I dimly feel 
 
 Underneath my heel. 
 Lurks the music of that which I always fail 
 To put into fitting words, though I hear 
 The great song humming within my ear, 
 
 " It begins when I start, and it follows on. 
 
 It mingtes and finds 
 
 A home in the winds, 
 Who catch and toy with its rough, wild tone. 
 It never ceases, for when we come 
 To a stand it sinks to a softer hum.
 
 156 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 " And often when roaring and rushing along 
 
 I can fancy I see 
 
 That wild melody- 
 Resting on every spot like a throng 
 Of tiny spirits that sing and shake 
 With joy at the things that men will make. 
 
 " When I lean myself over the side to watch 
 
 The cranks, I know 
 
 That somewhere below 
 In the network of rods there is one to catch 
 The music they make, which he sings again 
 To the monster who lets me hold the rein. 
 
 " I hear it wild and weird as we skim 
 Along the bridge. 
 Or close by the edge 
 Of some chasm whose jaws open rugged and grim, 
 As if to swallow the engine, if he 
 Should prove false to the touch of the rail or me. 
 
 " It roars in the tunnel, it gleams in the night, 
 
 And with wild desire 
 
 From the furnace fire 
 Leaps sudden and swift with the column of lio-ht 
 That shoots to the clouds in its frenzy to win 
 Fresh food for the flame that is seething within.
 
 BOB CRUIKSHANKS. 157 
 
 " It whirls with the smoke ; it takes up to the air 
 In the whistle that speaks 
 Its stern watchword, and shrieks, 
 As if half given over at times to despair ; 
 Nay, it even twines itself round the wheel 
 Till the mighty rim staggers and seems to feel. 
 
 " It waves from the mist looming up like a wall 
 
 On each side as we peer 
 
 To catch signals at clear; 
 It flares from the head-light that swims like a ball 
 Of wan, dim light, or the eye of a ghost, 
 With its shadowy form in the darkness lost. 
 
 " Is it the waiUng spirit of steam 
 
 Still following on. 
 
 With a wild, drear moan. 
 Its mighty first-born ? or a voice from the dream 
 Of the things that will be when the years display 
 The wild results which we shape to-day ? 
 
 " It is something Uke this which I fancy I hear 
 In the roar of the wheel 
 Underneath my heel, 
 As we dash through space in our wild career ; 
 But to put it into words, you see. 
 Is the thing just now which is puzzhng me." .
 
 158 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 That was what Bob Cruikshanks said, 
 
 With an oily hand that still would feel, 
 Round the fringes of his beard so red, 
 While the other felt for a pipe which he 
 Lit, with a shake of his head at me. 
 As he leant against the driving-wheel.
 
 THE VIOLET. 159 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 On the down line, and close beside the rail, 
 
 A tender violet grew, 
 A sister spirit, when the stars grew pale, 
 
 Gave it a drink of dew. 
 
 And so its azure deepen'd day by day, 
 
 And sweet it was to see. 
 As I went up and down the four-feet way. 
 
 The flower peep up at me. 
 
 I grew to like it — such a tiny thing, 
 
 So free from human stains, 
 Bending and swaying to each rush and swing 
 
 Of passing pitiless trains. 
 
 And when we came at times to make repair 
 
 Beside the place, I took 
 A loving heed to let it blossom there. 
 
 To cheer me with its look. 
 
 For fancy working in its quiet ways, 
 
 Sometimes would change the flower 
 
 Into a maiden of those iron days, 
 
 When might was right and power.
 
 i6o SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 And up and down the lists of gleaming rail 
 
 With echoing clank and shock, 
 Rode the stern engines in their suits of mail, 
 
 Like knights with plumes of smoke. 
 
 I crown'd her queen of beauty at their call, 
 
 And as I knelt beside 
 My bud, it look'd up, as if knowing all, 
 ^ And shook with modest pride. 
 
 Then restless fancy changing, it became 
 
 A martyr firm and high, 
 Bound to the stake, and lick'd with tongues of flame, 
 
 With bigots scowling nigh. 
 
 Next, a young poet with his soul aglow 
 With passionate dreams of truth, 
 
 And thoughts akin to those that angels know, 
 Who have eternal youth. 
 
 A nature all unfitted for the time, 
 
 Born but to droop and fade. 
 Like long sweet cadences of fairy rhyme 
 
 Within the summer shade. 
 
 All these and more my little flower did seem, 
 
 As to and fro I went. 
 In early light, or when the sun's soft beam 
 
 Shot to the west half spent.
 
 THE VIOLET. i6i 
 
 It made itself a presence in my thought, 
 
 Seen of the inner eye, 
 So pure and sweet, and yet so near the spot 
 
 Where wild trains thunder by. 
 
 But one sweet morning, when the young sunshine 
 
 Laid long soft arms of light 
 Around the earth, I found this flower of mine 
 
 Stricken as with some blight. 
 
 For like a fallen spot of heaven grown pale, 
 
 It leant its drooping head 
 Against the cold touch of the careless rail, 
 
 Wither'd, and shrunk, and dead. 
 
 Thus some rare soul, toiling for purer gains. 
 
 Sinks in the night alone. 
 While the hoarse world, like the iron trains. 
 
 Unheeding thunders on.
 
 i62 SONGS OF THE RAIL. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 The swart smoke geni with his heart aglow, 
 
 And all his giant strength and vigour strung, 
 
 To help our toiling lower gods below — 
 He still remains unsung. 
 
 I have but caught, in leaping to the side 
 
 To let him pass in smoke and thunder, dim, 
 
 Faint half-heard echoes from that rushing tide, 
 Of song which follows him. 
 
 But the keen years that for our coming kind, 
 
 Keep greater triumphs than to-day we claim, 
 
 Will bring a poet in whose heart the wind 
 Of song will leap like flame. 
 
 He, bom into a richer newer time, 
 
 And with a wealthier past behind, will sing, 
 Our wild fire-monster blurr'd with smoke and grime. 
 
 Traffic's sole lord and king, 
 
 In music worthy of that soul of fire, 
 
 Which in his iron bosom glows and leaps
 
 FINIS. i6: 
 
 Like lightnings, ere they cleave in sullen ire 
 Some jagged cloud that sweeps 
 
 The hills in muttered fear. My own dim song 
 Will fade and sink, as sinks a fitful wind, 
 
 Before the grander music, wild and strong 
 Of him who comes behind.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 ^M SONG OF LABOUR, AND OTHER POEMS." 
 
 (OutTof Print.) 
 
 George Gilfillan, Diindee. — Here is verily a " sign of the times" — 
 perfect phenomenon — a volume of true poetry, testifying to a powerful, 
 and, most astonishing of all, a well-cultivated mind, by a working rail- 
 way navvy or surfaceman on the Glasgow and South-Western Railway. 
 The Ayrshire ploughman, or the Edinburgh barber, the Glasgow 
 pattern-drawer, the Paisley weaver, the Clydesdale miner, the Aberdeen 
 policeman, are scarcely so wonderful as the Kirkconnel surfaceman. 
 . . . The sons of toil will rejoice to hear the ring and rattle of their 
 work return on them in poetry and music, and will hail him as their 
 representative, the true "Railway King." 
 
 People^s Friend. — This writer, who assumes that name (Surfaceman), 
 shows a refinement of language, a culture of intellect, a nobility of mind 
 and heart, and a command of language and imagery astonishing even 
 where the highest training has been received in college halls and 
 classes. And yet, nevertheless, Mr. Anderson has been, and is at this 
 present moment, a surfaceman, working on the Glasgow and South- 
 Western Railway — a "common navvy," as he not unfrequently desig- 
 nates himself — with pick and shovel toiling for his daily bread. 
 
 Scotsman. — What will remain most remarkable in this volume is 
 the rare degree of culture to which this Railway Surfaceman has at- 
 tained ; for not only has he made himself so familiar as to be able to use 
 it with care and effect in his own poems, but he is apparently familiar 
 with German literature, talking glibly of .Schiller and Goethe, and pre- 
 fixing to several pieces German quotations, which we presume him able 
 to translate, and also shows an acquaintance with French in his trans- 
 lation of " Hope and Sleep," from Voltaire. 
 
 Athenaiiim. — They (the poems) show a remarkable power in the 
 author of assimilating what he reads, and of expressing his own thoughts 
 with vigour and poetical taste. 
 
 Liverpool Daily Albion. — This is a very remarkable book, and Mr. 
 Anderson is evidently a very remarkable man.
 
 opinions of the Press. 
 
 The Railway News a7id Joint-Stock Joiirtial. — There is a true ring 
 of poetry in the book, and it may be a subject of pride to sixteen 
 thousand platelayers engaged on the railways of the United Kingdom 
 to have such a poet in their ranks. 
 
 Glasgow Het'ald. — His efforts in Scotch are almost uniformly good ; 
 one or two of the sonnets are capital ; and the volume, as a whole, 
 may be taken as a proof that the author will yet produce something of 
 higher mark. 
 
 Glasgow News. — This volume will no doubt at once become a 
 favourite, and please and soothe many a heart in the fortunes of homely 
 life ; and, if we mistake not, it will receive a cordial welcome from the 
 press in all quarters. 
 
 Ayr Observer. — An educated Surfaceman, a polished and gentle- 
 minded wielder of hammer, pick and shovel, is truly a rara avis in 
 terra ; but it is out of just such incongruous surroundings, and these, 
 too, intensified by distance from any particular centre of culture, that 
 there has sprung as remarkable a producer of verse as any that our 
 century has seen. ... A rough-handed son of toil, who is likely to 
 make his neighbourhood a notable one in future years. 
 
 Aberdeen foumal. — The author possesses genuine poetic power, not 
 of the highest or most vigorous kind, but sweet, true, and tender in its 
 degree. 
 
 Dunfertnline Press. — The poems abound in illustrations from a 
 wide range of sources, as well as in the neat, short, and striking word- 
 pictures which bespeak the author's care and accuracy, as well as the 
 abundance of his literary information, both ancient and modern. 
 
 Border Advertiser. — We have not space to permit us to analyse with 
 anything like justice the genius of our author. To say that the book is 
 the production of genius is perhaps enough for our readers — especially 
 in those days when genius is such a rare commodity. 
 
 Haddingtonshij'c Courier. — If the mission of the poet is to inculcate 
 the principles of goodness and truth, and to cheer men in this world, 
 then we must say that Mr. Anderson has not come far short of this 
 mission. His poetry has none of the drawing-room tones, or the tinge 
 of the midnight lamp. It has the real ring of nature's poetry in it. 
 
 Haviilton Advertiser. — We cordially recommend the book itself to 
 our readers. It will'repay perusal, and is sure to afford much intel- 
 lectual pleasure and enjoyment. 
 
 D^imfricsshire and Galloway Herald. — Many will be proud that the 
 mine of poetry is still unexhausted within her (Dumfries) bounds, and 
 the sons of labour should delight to honour one who has done so much 
 to dignify their calling. They will find much in these poems to raise 
 them in the scale of being. 
 
 Chicago Tribune. — There is a hearty earnestness about "Surface- 
 man's " poetry which at once engages the reader's attention, and keeps 
 him spell-bound till he reaches the end of the poem.
 
 ''THE TWO ANGELS, AND OTHER POEMS." 
 
 (Out of Print.) 
 
 George Giljillan, Dundee, — "The Railway King." 
 
 Scotsman. — The most daring and lofty flight the " Surfaceman " has 
 yet attempted is in the series of sonnets entitled " In Rome," wherein 
 he measures himself against some of the greatest writers, and when we 
 consider who he is and who they were, it is surprising how he holds 
 his ground. 
 
 Daily Review. — In some of the author's more ambitious efforts we 
 find a manly simplicity, with a statuesque kind of classic stateliness 
 which slowly and stealthily, but in the end powerfully appeals to sym- 
 pathies that would not respond at all to the touch of the mere poetaster 
 or the vagabond troubadour. 
 
 Glasgow Herald. — A vigorous earnestness runs through the poems, 
 and almost every one beats with a pulse of reality. 
 
 People'' s Friend. — This new volume is one that will endear the poet 
 still more to all who take an interest in his career, and lift him to a 
 higher niche among the glorious company of Scotia's bards. 
 
 League Journal. — We heartily recommend the volume as the work 
 of a true and a genuine man. 
 
 Kilmarnock Standard. — Every household in Ayrshire should get 
 the poems of the Railway Surfaceman. 
 
 Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald. — The volume is a remarkable one. 
 
 Haddingtonshire Courier. — In the sonnets Mr. Anderson attains at 
 once his finest melody, his happiest thoughts, and his most sustained 
 and artistic expression. 
 
 Yonng Mens Christiaft Magazine. — Those who appreciate genuine 
 poetry will find in this volume a rich treat. 
 
 Weekly Review, London. — This is a remarkable production, whether 
 we consider its sterling excellence, evincing as it does true and genuine 
 genius, or the social circumstances in the midst of which it has struggled 
 into existence. 
 
 Hamilton Advertiser. — These are compositions that will bear to be 
 read and re-read, and read again. 
 
 Cumnock Express. — Not a little he has written is as worthy to live 
 as much that has flowed from the pen of the greater sleepers in our 
 national Pantheon.
 
 opinions of the Press. 
 
 Railway Fly-Sheet. — We offer to the railway world Mr. Anderson's 
 most excellent work as something of which the service ought to be 
 proud, and to the author we present our warmest congratulations. 
 
 Christian News. — Apart from his poetic genius, Alexander Ander- 
 son is a very remarkable man. 
 
 Kelso Chronicle. — If " Surfaceman " will only be true to his powers 
 and work slowly and carefully as Smith did, there can be no doubt that 
 he will yet make for himself a name of no little renown. 
 
 Dumfries and Galloivay Standard atid Register. — No one can devote 
 half-an-hour or so to this volume without perceiving that its author is 
 a man of talent and culture, who possesses besides a considerable amount 
 of poetic genius. 
 
 Dumfries and Gallo7uay Courier. — Altogether we regard Mr. Ander- 
 son's poems as a credit to our literature, and we are proud to claim a 
 man of so well cultivated and so pure and sound a mind as a native of 
 the south of Scotland. 
 
 The Orkney Herald. — " In Rome " is a production of great genius. 
 It evinces a power of conception and delineation which have been seldom 
 surpassed. 
 
 Dunfermline Press. — We heartily recommend the book to our readers 
 as one certain to be thoroughly enjoyed, and full of what is at once in- 
 teresting, profitable, and entertaining — a miscellaneous collection, but 
 of treasures the like of which we seldom see, and will be only too happy 
 to welcome again. 
 
 Inverness Courier. — The author possesses genuine poetic faculty, but 
 more remarkable even than this, we think, are the marks of culture 
 and scholarship which his poems display. 
 
 The Cou7-ant. — We heartily recommend Mr. Anderson on the success 
 of his resolute self-culture. 
 
 Border Advertiser. — The volume, as a whole, has more genuine 
 poetry in it than twenty others of modern verse we could name put 
 together, and is equally an honour to the poet himself, an honour to the 
 class to which he belongs, and an honour to the age which has the liber- 
 ality to purchase, and the taste to enjoy such productions, thus encour- 
 aging and inspiriting one who is at once a genuine son of toil and a 
 genuine son of song. 
 
 Stirling Observer. — The latent power this poem ("In Rome") re- 
 veals bespeaks a future for Anderson of no uncertain kind. 
 
 Labour Ahws.- — If there is a poet living who can sing of the throb- 
 bing impulses of this inquiring age, and who is likely to chant a paean 
 over our victories as displayed in the triumphs of science in this eventful 
 era of the world's history, that poet is " Surfaceman."
 
 opinions of the Press. 
 
 Leeds Merairy. — It is not surprising to discover that a spirit of 
 purity and refinement pervades all the writings of such a man, but it is 
 somewhat startling to find a self-educated "Surfaceman" grappling, 
 and that by no means unsuccessfully, with subjects which have furnished 
 themes for poets like Byron, Madame de Stael, and Goethe. 
 
 Liverpool Weekly Albion. — We regret that we have not space for 
 further comments or additional extracts from this volume, which is 
 certainly the most charming and interesting collection of verse which 
 has come under our notice for some time. 
 
 Bradford Observer. — We could easily show by extracts that Mr. 
 Anderson has the distinctive qualities of the poet in no slight degree — 
 insight or intuition, earnestness, pathos, sympathy, and humour. 
 
 Westminster Revieiv. — We advise all our readers to judge for them- 
 selves of a remarkable book in which we feel no common interest. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine. — In the front ranks of the modern 
 singers of Scotland we would place Alexander Anderson. 
 
 Literary World. — They (the poems) are so far removed from the 
 jingle-jingle of many poetisers of humble rank that one asks again and 
 again how comes it to pass that a railway navvy can produce such 
 astounding lines. 
 
 The Evangelical Magazine. —Talk of learning and culture in the 
 presence of genius ! Why, here is a " Surfaceman " as he used to call 
 himself — that is a worker on railways, a "navvy," as he would be 
 named in England, who has written poems that would do honour to 
 the finest scholar that ever left the classic halls of Oxford or Cambridge. 
 
 The Christian World. — We heartily recommend this charming 
 volume. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. — Our Author's sonnets " In Rome," form un- 
 questionably his most elaborate composition. 
 
 The Examiner. — Mr. Anderson has sung the engine and related 
 incidents of the line, not, indeed, with all the glamour of Turner's 
 " Mist, Rain, and Steam," but with an evident love for his subject, and 
 much insight into its capabilities. 
 
 Satin-day Review. — Considering his defective education and his every- 
 day employment, there is a remarkable delicacy and refinement in some 
 of the pieces, and the writer has evidently, though not uniformly, an 
 accurate ear for melody.
 
 "BALLADS AND SONNETS." 
 
 Crown 8vo. 
 MACMILLAN & CO. 
 
 AtheniTiiin. — "Of course the great mass can never hope to rise 
 above purely local fame, but now and then one succeeds. Alexander 
 Anderson is among these fortunate ones. ... In all the railway poems 
 there is not only local colouring but great power." 
 
 Academy. — "Some time ago, in reviewing the poems of a Belgian 
 iron-worker, we ventured to doubt whether so successful a specimen as 
 M. Frenay could be found among the same class in England. Mr. 
 Alexander Anderson's Ballads and Sontiels (Macmillan) enable us to 
 acknowledge with great pleasure that the doubt was unfounded. The 
 author is, or was, a railway surfaceman, and his work is very exception- 
 ally good of its kind. The remarkable thing about it is that the more 
 ambitious poems are as good as the more homely, or perhaps we should 
 rather reverse the phrase] and say that the more homely poems are as 
 good as the more ambitious. The most perilous effect of culture upon 
 those who are not to the manner born is that they often acquire, more 
 or less imperfectly, the language and ideas of the higher classes, while 
 they unlearn their own natural speech and thought. This is not the 
 case with Mr. Anderson. His 'Jenny wi' the Airn Teeth' — an awful 
 bogie who besets sleepless children — is as natural and as charming a 
 piece of dialect as any we have read (if George Eliot will pass us the 
 phrase) for many a long day. On the other hand, his ' In Rome,' his 
 'Summer Invocation,' and his 'Agnes,' are serious poems in literary 
 English which rank him far up in the lower division of contemporary 
 poets. ' Chateaux en Espagne' is what is, perhaps, harder still for such 
 a writer to produce, a comic piece also in full dress and perfectly obser- 
 vant of the very difficult limitations which such work requires, and 
 which, be it observed, writers with far more pretensions than Mr. 
 Anderson constantly transgress. Perhaps the poem most likely to be 
 generally popular is ' Blood on the Wheel,' a professional tragedy of the 
 kind that meets with many admirers, and is very well done. Mr. 
 Anderson's chief fault is a certain diffuseness, which makes it difficult to 
 select any short passages for quotation. As an instance of culture under 
 difficulties, his work is of the highest interest." — G. Saintsbury. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette.— " This volume claims little consideration on the 
 plea that its author is a working man. The reader will forget the 
 author's position while reading his verses, or will remember it only to 
 wonder at the refinement and culture they exhibit." 
 
 From article on "Some Recent Books" in Contemporary Reviaa 
 for February 1881 : — "Much more vigorous and much more character-
 
 opinions of the Press. 
 
 istic is the volume of Ballads and Sonnets issued by Alexander Anderson, 
 who has earned for himself a high reputation in Scotland under the name 
 of ' Surfaceman.' " 
 
 Saturday Review. — "A work of great interest." 
 
 Weekly Despatch. — " What is rarer is to find a self-taught toiler who 
 has acquired sufficient culture to express himself gracefully as well as 
 vigorously and earnestly. Such dainty skill in the subtler forms of 
 verse writing as can only come of a refined mind well trained, is the 
 most remarkable characteristic of Mr. Anderson's. . . . We advise 
 readers who have not yet made acquaintance with ' the Kirkconnel 
 Suifaceman' to study him in such choice productions as these." 
 
 Nonconformist. — " In the present volume Mr. Anderson's culture, 
 and his persistent passion for culture, is almost as conspicuous as his 
 poetic feeling. One of the most noticeable portions of the contents is a 
 series of sonnets ' To a Friend,' in memory of a tour in Belgium, which 
 are full of observation, delicacy, and graceful unexpected touches." 
 
 Guardian. — ^^ Ballads and Sonnets is the production of a genuine 
 Scottish man of genius. . , . There is one of his ballads, ' Blood on 
 the Wheel,' which tells the story of an engine-driver who died of a 
 broken heart for having run over his sweetheart as she was handing him 
 a letter, and which alone would place its author quite in the front rank 
 of English poets." 
 
 Leeds Ulercury. — " In ' In Rome,' a poem in sonnets, there are no 
 crudities, but, on the other hand, the finished expression of a trained 
 mind, and such manifestations of culture that it seems rather as though 
 the man of letters had become a railway navvy than that a person in 
 that hard and humble walk of life had worked his way up to a place in 
 a lofty walk of literature." 
 
 Derbyshire Courier. — " 'In Rome' is the most ambitious contribu- 
 tion to the volume, and in it we see the cultured author at his best. 
 The workmanship is above criticism. It may have been equalled and 
 surpassed, but it leaves upon the mind the impression that Alexander 
 Anderson — navvy though he be — is what great numbers of modern 
 versifiers are not — namely, a poet." 
 
 Derbyshire Times. — "The word 'genius' is so thoughtlessly used, 
 and commonly abused, in the present day, that we hesitate to apply it 
 to Anderson's high culture of mind. Yet it is the only definition that 
 correctly defines his mental status as opposed to mere cleverness and 
 glib talent which is so frequently mistaken for the 'divine afflatus.'" 
 
 Scotsmait. — "Among living Scottish poets there are few who are 
 entitled to a higher place than Alexander Anderson. . . . The artistic 
 finish, the culture and elevation of thought conspicuous in the series of 
 sonnets entitled ' In Rome,' the tender pathos and delicate expression 
 of the domestic affections embodied in such poems as 'Cuddle Doon,' 
 and 'Wee Jamie's Chair,' the fire and life that throb in every line of 
 the verses on ' The Engine,' the power of graphic narrative displayed 
 in 'Blood on the Wheel,' and 'Nottman,' the love of Nature and the 
 subtle appreciation of her delights displayed throughout the volume —
 
 opinions of the Press. 
 
 all these are the attributes of the true poet, who has the high gift of 
 giving worthy expression to his inspirations." 
 
 Glasgow Ha-ald. — "The fine quality of ' In Rome' is undeniable, 
 quite apart from the surprise that such a poem should have been written 
 by one whose opportunities have not been of the classical description ; 
 coupled with that consideration, one's liking for the poem grows into 
 astonished admiration." 
 
 Dtmdee Advertiser: — " Left to the unbiassed judgment of a generous 
 public, this book will enable all who love true poetry to feel that a 
 noble, cultured, true son of song is among us, toiling manfully at the 
 humble occupation of a railway navvy, and dignifying honest labour by 
 the products of his pen." 
 
 Daily Review. — " The strength and sweetness of the singer are most 
 fully brought out when he treats of familiar things. When we reach the 
 ballads we are tempted to quote at every page." 
 
 Sciaitific Reznew. — " The striking feature of Alexander Anderson is 
 his verses about the railway and the trains. Familiarity, so far from 
 breeding contempt, has inspired awe and admiration." 
 
 Daily News. — " Ballads and Sojiiiets eshihii, like the author's pre- 
 vious books of verse, considerable power of graceful expression, together 
 with a delicate sense of rhythm." 
 
 The Magnet. — " Burns was undoubtedly the parent of modern Scot- 
 tish song, and to the list of his numerous progeny must now be added 
 the name of Alexander Anderson, the platelayer poet." 
 
 Buxton Advertiser. — "The ballads which admirably diversify these 
 pleasant pages are now full of capital humour, anon pregnant with 
 sweetest pathos, and will, in themselves, amply repay those who pur- 
 chase the volume." 
 
 Edinburgh Co2trant. — " In these poems the rich imaginative power 
 of the Surfaceman is finely displayed." 
 
 Dumfries and Gallcnvay Standard. — " They (the poems) all manifest 
 a great amount of poetical fervour, the language used is a fitting vehicle 
 to the fine sentiment, and there is a musical ring about most of the 
 pieces which gives them a superadded charm." 
 
 People's Friend. — " It ('In Rome') is a poem to which we can go 
 back again and yet again with ever fresh delight." 
 
 Hatnilton Advertiser. — " The present volume furnishes an excellent 
 specimen of the variety, and force, and singular culture and refinement 
 that characterise Anderson's productions. " 
 
 Yoimg Men's Christian Magazine. — " It is a book of poems. In it 
 the author is no 'Surfaceman,' but one who through the seen sees the 
 unseen, and expresses it in language fit, chaste, chosen, and charming." 
 
 League Journal. — " In the present volume Mr. Anderson has given 
 a collection of his best pieces, and added some new ones distinguished 
 alike by poetic genius, and that fine literary finish which is the fruit of 
 a richly-cultured mind." .
 
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