“Puffing Billy.”

A railway train is a gallant thing!
I can't describe a bit of her gear,
For alas, I am not an engineer;
But I watch her go with an easy swing,
Clank-clanking gaily—the North Express—
As smart as a girl in her dancing-dress.
She is ready to run three hundred miles,
On the winding ways of the narrow gauge,
Whether the moonlight calmly smiles,
Or whether the floods and the tempests rage.
“Who-oo!” she whistles, and ringing back,
The hill-born echoes attend her track….
Midnight! Though some in their berths may sleep.
So safely guarded the whole night through,
'Tis worth their while if a watch they keep,
For the Three Volcanoes swing into view!
Stern Ngauruhoe, as dark as sin.
Steam-plumed without, and on fire within;
Grand Ruapehu, his mantle white,
Of the purest snow, shining through the night;
Old Tongariro, beyond the two.
Not dead, but sleeping—one midnight view!
Another train I have loved to see
Is the Wairarapa, with engines three,
That over the Rimutaka climbs,
With the pluck to climb it a thousand times.
All black with coal-smoke, and soot, and oil,
She tugs and labours, she hisses and sobs,

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But she won't give in while her boilers boil;
Not she! while a single engine throbs.
Fear nothing! She is not the sort to stop;
But through bush-scenes beautiful, as a dream,
She wraps herself in her clouds of steam,
And pulls till she's up and over the top.
“Who-oo!” she whistles, “and there's a grade!
I wonder how it was ever made.”
Oh, a railway train is a gallant thing!
And to my thinking, the best of men
(They may grumble a little, now and then,
So seldom do any their praises sing),
Are the faithful fireman and driver and guard,
Who work so nobly for small reward.
'Tis a beautiful land where their work is done,
In summer and winter, 'neath stars and sun;
But horror would blacken the face of Beauty
In the hour that they ceased to do their duty.

—A.

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