Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An', taught by time, I tak' it so – exceptin' always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God — Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. John Calvin might ha' forged the same – enorrmous, certain, slow — Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame —my "Institutio." I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; I'll stand the middle watch up here – alone wi' God an' these My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again. Slam-bang too much – they knock a wee – the crosshead-gibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse… Fine, clear an' dark – a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night! His wife's at Plymouth… Seventy – One – Two – Three since he began — Three turns for Mistress Ferguson … an' who's to blame the man? There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow, Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. (The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws – fra' Govan to Parkhead!) Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say: "Good morrn, McAndrews! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?" Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair To drink Madeira wi' three Earls – the auld Fleet Engineer, That started as a boiler-whelp – when steam and he were low. I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow. Ten pound was all the pressure then – Eh! Eh! – a man wad drive; An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder' fifty-five! We're creepin' on wi' each new rig – less weight an' larger power: There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour! Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man? The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea: Four time the span from earth to moon… How far, O Lord, from Thee? That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon? It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon. Three feet were on the stokehold floor – just slappin' to an' fro — An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show. Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns – deep in my soul an' black, An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas, Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed… Forgie's our trespasses. Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze, The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays; Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong — Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong! Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode — Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road! An' waur than all – my crownin' sin – rank blasphemy an' wild. I was not four and twenty then – Ye wadna' judge a child? I'd seen the Tropics first that run – new fruit, new smells, new air — How could I tell – blind-fou wi' sun – the Deil was lurkin' there? By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes; By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies, In port (we used no cargo-steam) I'd daunder down the streets — An ijjit grinnin' in a dream – for shells an' parrakeets, An' walkin'-sticks o' carved bamboo an' blowfish stuffed an' dried — Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Chief put overside. Till, off Sumbawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca' Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom: "McAndrews, come awa'!" Firm, clear an' low – no haste, no hate – the ghostly whisper went, Just statin' eevidential facts beyon' all argument: "Your mither's God's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel', Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' Hell. They mak' him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt, A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt, Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red-hot rod, But come wi' Us" (Now, who were They?) "an' know the Leevin' God, That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, But swells the ripenin' cocoanuts an' ripes the woman's breast." An' there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice — For me, six months o' twenty-four, to leave or take at choice. 'Twas on me like a thunderclap – it racked me through an' through — Temptation past the show o' speech, unnamable an' new — The Sin against the Holy Ghost?.. An' under all, our screw. That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin' swell, Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell. 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 na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire, An' I was drowzin' 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 – clear 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 everyone 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… 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 – 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… 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?" Damned 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-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 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-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? 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, God 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 snatched 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 – God 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 passed 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 glasses — 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!
We've drunk to the Queen – God bless her! — We've drunk to our mothers' land; We've drunk to our English brother (And we hope he'll understand). We've drunk as much as we're able, And the Cross swings low to the morn; Last toast – and your foot on the table! — A health to the Native-born!
A health to the Native-born, (Stand up!) We're six white men arow, All bound to sing o' the little things we care about, All bound to fight for the little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow! By the might of our cable-tow, (Take hands!) From the Orkneys to the Horn, All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it), A health to the Native-born!
THE KING
"Farewell, Romance!" the Cave-men said; "With bone well carved he went away, Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead, And jasper tips the spear to-day. Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance, And he with these. Farewell, Romance!"
"Farewell, Romance!" the Lake-folk sighed; "We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain side Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!"
"Farewell, Romance!" the Soldier spoke; "By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke Of arquebus and culverin. Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!"
"Farewell, Romance!" the Traders cried; "Our keels ha' lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide Heave up the wharf where we would be; The known and noted breezes swell Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!"
"Good-bye, Romance!" the Skipper said; "He vanished with the coal we burn; Our dial marks full steam ahead, Our speed is timed to half a turn. Sure as the tidal trains we ply 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!"
"Romance!" the Season-tickets mourn, "He never ran to catch his train, But passed with coach and guard and horn — And left the local – late again! Confound Romance!"… And all unseen Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.
His hand was on the lever laid, His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, His whistle waked the snowbound grade, His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; In dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-god reckless laboured still.
Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, With unconsidered miracle, Hedged in a backward-gazing world; Then taught his chosen bard to say: "The King was with us – yesterday!"
