BINDLE : TRIFLES FROM THE LINE

SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE

(Song from J. Andrews, Printer, 38 Chatham St, NY)

Beware! Beware! For I come in my might,
With a scream, and a scowl of scorn;
With a speed like the mountain eagle’s flight,
When he rides the breeze of morn.

Avaunt! Avaunt! For I heed you not,
Nor pause for the cry of pain;
I rejoice o’er the slaughter my wheels have wrought,
And I laugh at the mangled slain.

Away—away—o’er valley, plain
I sweep you with a voice of wrath;
In a fleecy cloud I wrap my train,
As I tread my iron path.

My bowels are fire and my arm is steel,
My breath is a rolling cloud:
And my voice peels out as I onward wheel,
Like the thunder rolling loud.

All day, all day do my sinews play,
When my suns’ bright rays are cast;
At the midnight hour I fly on my way,
Like a death-fiend howling past.

I roar on the beach of the roaring deep,
Where the sea-shells touch my wheels;
Through the desert land with a howl I sweep,
And the yellow harvest fields.

I speed through the city’s busy streets,
Where the thronging crowds are found,
Who fly at the sound of my iron feet,
Like the hare at the baying hound.

I traverse the regions of burning heat,
The Equator hears my scream;
And I breathe the silence of winter’s retreat,
Where the glittering snow-fields gleam.

The wild beasts fly when my voice they hear
Through the sounding forest ring,
And the sons of men stand mute with fear,
OF EARTH I AM THE KING!