An' yet I like the wark for all we've dam' few pickin's here-- No pension, an' the most we earn's four hunder' pound a year.

Better myself abroad? Maybe. _I'd_ sooner starve than sail Wi' such as call a snifter-rod _ross_.... French for nightingale.

Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans. I'm older than the Board.

A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close, But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to _those_.

(There's bricks that I might recommend--an' clink the fire-bars cruel.

No! Welsh--w.a.n.garti at the worst--an' d.a.m.n all patent fuel!) Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak' a patent pay.

My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay, I blame no chaps wi' clearer head for aught they make or sell.

_I_ found that I could not invent an' look to these--as well.

So, wrestled wi' Apollyon--Nah!--fretted like a bairn-- But burned the workin'-plans last run wi' all I hoped to earn.

Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant to me-- E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee....

_Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find her runnin' hard?

Ye needn't swill the cap wi' oil--this isn't the Cunard.

Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!_ Tck! Tck! It's deeficult to sweer nor tak' The Name in vain!

Men, ay an' women, call me stern. Wi' these to oversee Ye'll note I've little time to burn on social repartee.

The bairns see what their elders miss; they'll hunt me to an' fro, Till for the sake of--well, a kiss--I tak' 'em down below.

That minds me of our Viscount loon--Sir Kenneth's kin--the chap Wi' russia leather tennis-shoon an' spar-decked yachtin'-cap.

I showed him round last week, o'er all--an' at the last says he: "Mister McAndrews, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?"

d.a.m.ned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws, Manholin', on my back--the cranks three inches from my nose.

Romance! Those first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers they like it very well, Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?

I'm sick of all their quirks an' turns--the loves an' doves they dream-- Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam!

To match wi' Scotia's n.o.blest speech yon orchestra sublime Whaurto--uplifted like the Just--the tail-rods mark the time.

The crank-throws give the double-ba.s.s; the feed-pump sobs an' heaves: An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves.

Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides, Till--hear that note?--the rod's return whings glimmerin' through the guides.

They're all awa'! True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamoes.

Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed, To work, Ye'll note, at any tilt an' every rate o' speed.

Fra' skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an' stayed, An' singin' like the Mornin' Stars for joy that they are made; While, out o' touch o' vanity, the sweatin' thrust-block says: "Not unto us the praise, or man--not unto us the praise!"

Now, a' together, hear them lift their lesson--theirs an' mine: "Law, Orrder, Duty an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!"

Mill, forge an' try-pit taught them that when roarin' they arose, An' whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi' the blows.

Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain, Till even first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers could tell the meanin' plain!

But no one cares except mysel' that serve an' understand My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh, Lord! They're grand--they're grand!

Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood, Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin' all things good?

Not so! O' that warld-liftin' joy no after-fall could vex, Ye've left a glimmer still to cheer the Man--the Arrtifex!

_That_ holds, in spite o' knock and scale, o' friction, waste an' slip, An' by that light--now, mark my word--we'll build the Perfect Ship.

I'll never last to judge her lines or take her curve--not I.

But I ha' lived an' I ha' worked. All thanks to Thee, Most High!

An' I ha' done what I ha' done--judge Thou if ill or well-- Always Thy Grace preventin' me....

Losh! Yon's the "Stand by" bell.

Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin'-watch is set.

Well, G.o.d be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pelagian yet.

Now I'll tak' on....

_'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal?... I'll burn 'em down to port._

THE MIRACLES.

I sent a message to my dear-- A thousand leagues and more to her-- The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear, And Lost Atlantis bore to her.

Behind my message hard I came, And nigh had found a grave for me; But that I launched of steel and flame Did war against the wave for me.

Uprose the deep, by gale on gale, To bid me change my mind again-- He broke his teeth along my rail, And, roaring, swung behind again.

I stayed the sun at noon to tell My way across the waste of it; I read the storm before it fell And made the better haste of it.

Afar, I hailed the land at night-- The towers I built had heard of me-- And, ere my rocket reached its height, Had flashed my Love the word of me.

Earth gave her chosen men of strength (They lived and strove and died for me) To drive my road a nation's length, And toss the miles aside for me.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed their toil to serve my needs-- Too slow their fleetest flew for me-- I tired twenty smoking steeds, And bade them bait a new for me.

I sent the lightnings forth to see Where hour by hour she waited me.

Among ten million one was she, And surely all men hated me!

Dawn ran to meet us at my goal-- Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!-- And little folk of little soul Rose up to buy and sell again!

THE NATIVE-BORN.

We've drunk to the Queen--G.o.d bless her!-- We've drunk to our mothers' land; We've drunk to our English brother (But he does not understand); We've drunk to the wide creation, And the Cross swings low to the morn, Last toast, and of obligation, A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them, But not their hearts that roam!

We learned from our wistful mothers To call old England "home"; We read of the English sky-lark, Of the spring in the English lanes, But we screamed with the painted lories As we rode on the dusty plains!

They pa.s.sed with their old-world legends-- Their tales of wrong and dearth-- Our fathers held by purchase, But we by the right of birth; Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil, And our faith and our hope and our honour We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your gla.s.ses-- I charge you drink with me To the men of the Four New Nations, And the Islands of the Sea-- To the last least lump of coral That none may stand outside, And our own good pride shall teach us To praise our comrade's pride.

To the hush of the breathless morning On the thin, tin, crackling roofs, To the haze of the burned back-ranges And the dust of the shoeless hoofs-- To the risk of a death by drowning, To the risk of a death by drouth-- To the men of a million acres, To the Sons of the Golden South.

_To the Sons of the Golden South, (Stand up!) And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a single blow!_

To the smoke of a hundred coasters, To the sheep on a thousand hills, To the sun that never blisters, To the rain that never chills-- To the land of the waiting springtime, To our five-meal, meat-fed men, To the tall deep-bosomed women, And the children nine and ten!

_And the children nine and ten, (Stand up!) And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a two-fold blow!_

To the far-flung fenceless prairie Where the quick cloud-shadows trail, To our neighbour's barn in the offing And the line of the new-cut rail; To the plough in her league-long furrow With the gray Lake gulls behind-- To the weight of a half-year's winter And the warm wet western wind!

To the home of the floods and thunder, To her pale dry healing blue-- To the lift of the great Cape combers, And the smell of the baked Karroo.

To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head-- To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled!

To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung-- To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man's tongue.

To the cool of our deep verandas-- To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane!

To the hearth of our people's people-- To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altars Where the Abbey makes us We; To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine-- To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line!