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.

der's comin' now."

The ten

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.

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 theseas 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 ?

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-l 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 feedpump sobs an' heaves: