Maybe they steam from grace to wrath-to sin by folly led,

It isna mine to judge their path-their lives are on my head.

Mine at the last-when all is done it all comes back

to me,

The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the

sea.

We'll tak' one stretch-three weeks an' odd by any road ye steer

Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington-ye need an engineer.

Fail there-ye've time to weld your shaft-ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke;

Or make Kerguelen under sail-three jiggers burned wi' smoke!

An' home again, the Rio run: it's no child's play to go

Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow

The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift

Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift.

(Hail, snow an' ice that praise the Lord: I've met

them at their work,

An' wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.) Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings

All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.

Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear

The passengers, wi' gloves an' canes-an' this is what I'll hear:

"Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender's comin' now."

While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.

They've words for every one but me -shake hands wi' half the crew,

Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.

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

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-Wangarti at the worst—an' damn 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

E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee. . . .

Below there!

Oiler!

it runnin' hard?

What's your wark? Ye find

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 M'Andrew, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?"

Damned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,

Manholin', on my back-the cranks three inches off my nose.

Romance! Those first-class passengers 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 noblest speech yon orchestra sublime

Whaurto-uplifted like the Just-the tail-rods mark the time.

The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feedpump sobs an' heaves,

An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:

Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking linkhead bides,

Till-hear that note ?-the rod's return whings glimmerin' through the guides.

They're all awa'!

chorus goes

True beat, full power, the clangin'

Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamos.

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' thrustblock 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-class passengers 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?