Calmly he sits in the well of the cab, Waiting the signal to start.

What makes a driver? From the time his little heart could thrill, His little ears could hear the magic train—

The movements in the shunting yard, the engine's whistle shrill—

His soul was tuned to love the driver's game.

“The tree grows as the twig is bent.”

His games were all of trains— He shunted round the kitchen chairs at home.

And when at last to school he's sent, “Expresses” rule his brains. (In vain for other “sense” his teachers comb.)

School done, he seeks a Clearer's job, and loves it from the start.

The healthy smells of oils and waste cheer his full-engined heart.

Delight he feels in ponderous wheels, in steam-dome burnished bright, In “pinching” engines round the shed, and setting fires alight.

Next, as a Fireman, to and fro, full proud, the shovel swings, Develops speed, the “rhythmic throw” that rich combustion brings.

So grades he to the Driver's seat—supreme control of trains;

A Master Driver certified—nerve, judgment, vision, brains.

Songs of the Wheels.

Open up the throttle wide. Give her lots of coal.

“Fireman, stir the fire! we'll eat up steam!”

Ours the heavy work to do, the nation's load to bear. (Watch the motors carry off the “cream!”)

“S over T equals V.”

Time into Space equals Speed. This the equation that he Who runs the Express has to heed.

“A mile a minute!” There's nothing in it So long as you pin wit and judgment together.

The nearer you reach it The more will you teach it To bring you home safe when you drive “hell for leather.”

On the Road.

The ocean greyhound scents his way across the charted sea. (A simple code of signals answers he.)

The motor-car honks round the bay, and toots a passage free! (The earth was made for him and such as he.)

But the engine-driver, driving on the midnight fast express, Has a harder job than even he can tell—

His every sense is keyed up to the highest pitch of stress From the moment that he hears the starting bell.

The airman has free movement through the air dimensions three—

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The joy-stick in his hand gives full control.

Above the world, the clouded blue calls him to “come and see,” And, answering it, he scours heaven's upturned bowl.

But the engine-driver driving on a heavy, bumping “freight,”

When the track is overcrowded and he's running rather late, Knows well that if one signal's missed or he misjudge the rate The pounding wheels could hurl his train to desolating fate.

The liftman has his ups and downs within his close-walled pen— A simple life composed of starts and stops,

Of opening doors and shutting them, and pressing levers when The “floor” bells click in factories or shops.

But the engine-driver driving through the roaring shunting yard Has excitement every moment of his “trick.”

There are waving lights to guide him, there are smoke screens to obscure, And a maze of movements when the traffic's thick.

Yet when the day is breaking, and the night “shifts” all depart— Calmly he sits in the well of the cab, Waiting the signal to start.