RAIL-ROAD SONG.

———

BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D.

———

All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle,

Goes the bell, as we all mingle—

No one sitting solely single—

As the fireman builds his fire,

And the steam gets higher, higher—

Thus fulfilling his desire—

Which forever he keeps feeding

With the pine-knots he is needing,

As he on his way goes speeding—

And the Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

While the smoke goes upward curling,

Spark-bespangled in unfurling,

And the iron-wheels go whirling,

Like two mighty mill-stones grinding,

When no miller is them minding—

All the eye with grit-dust blinding—

And the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Driving off the grazing cattle—

As if Death were fiends pursuing

To their uttermost undoing—

With a clitta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter,

As if something was the matter;

Then it changes to a clanking,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter—

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.

Thus, from station on to station,

Right along through each plantation,

This great Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

Sometimes faster, sometimes slower,

Sometimes higher, sometimes lower—

As if Time, the great world-mover,

Had come down for his last reaping

Of the harvest ripe, in keeping,

Of the nations waiting, weeping—

While the engine, overteeming,

Spits his vengeance out in steaming

With excruciating screaming—

While the wheels are whirling under,

Like the chariot-wheels of thunder,

When the lightning rends asunder

All the clouds that steam from Ocean,

When he pays the Moon devotion—

With a grinding rhythmic motion—

Till the frightened sheep are scattered,

Like the clouds by lightning tattered,

And the gates of day are battered

With the clitta, clatta, clatter—

Still repeating clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

As if something was the matter—

While the woodlands all are ringing,

And the birds forget their singing.

And away to heaven go winging

Of their flight to hear the clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Which continues so, till coming

To a straight line, when the humming

Is so mixed up with the strumming,

That the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Frightening off the grazing cattle—

Like Hell’s thunder-river roaring,

Over Death’s dark mountain pouring

Into space, forever boring

Through th’ abysmal depths, with clatter

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter—

Which subsides into a clunky,

And a clinky, and a clanky,

And a clinky, clanky, clanky,

And a clanky, clinky, clanky;

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.