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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?

find her runnin' hard?

Ye

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.

oversee

Wi' these to

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 feedpump 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, de

creed,

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, Dis

cipline!"

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.

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'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought

What your good leddy costs in coal?

burn 'em down to port.

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