Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell! Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair, But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! We dared not run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire, An' I was drowsin' on the hatch-sick-sick wi' doubt an' tire: "Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!" Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs-again, an' once again, When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin'-chain; An' by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain. Light on the engine-room-no more-bright as our carbons burn. I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return. Obsairve. Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord, But-average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra' port to port I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought? 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 to me- E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee. 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 Men, ay an' women, call me stern. Wi' these to oversee 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! very well, Those first-class passengers they like it 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'! True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamos. |