FullReads

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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. . .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 it 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 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 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’ 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’ 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. ‘Be 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.