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1893
LORD, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, | |
| An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so—exceptin’ always Steam. | |
| From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God— | |
| Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod. | |
| John Calvin might ha’ forged the same—enorrmous, certain, slow— | 5 |
| Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame—my “Institutio.” | |
| I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; | |
| I’ll stand the middle watch up here—alone wi’ God an’ these | |
| My engines, after ninety days o’ race an’ rack an’ strain | |
| Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again. | 10 |
| Slam-bang too much—they knock a wee—the crosshead-gibs are loose, | |
| But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse…. | |
| Fine, clear an’ dark—a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight, | |
| An’ Ferguson relievin’ Hay. Old girl, ye’ll walk to-night! | |
| His wife’s at Plymouth…. Seventy—One—Two—Three since he began— | 15 |
| Three turns for Mistress Ferguson … and who’s to blame the man? | |
| There’s none at any port for me, by drivin’ fast or slow, | |
| Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. | |
| (The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, | |
| Fra’ Maryhill to Pollokshaws—fra’ Govan to Parkhead!) | 20 |
| Not but they’re ceevil on the Board. Ye’ll hear Sir Kenneth say: | |
| “Good morrn, McAndrew! Back again? An’ how’s your bilge to-day?” | |
| Miscallin’ technicalities but handin’ me my chair | |
| To drink Madeira wi’ three Earls—the auld Fleet Engineer | |
| That started as a boiler-whelp—when steam and he were low. | 25 |
| I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow! | |
| Ten pound was all the pressure then—Eh! Eh!—a man wad drive; | |
| An’ here, our workin’ gauges give one hunder sixty-five! | |
| We’re creepin’ on wi’ each new rig—less weight an’ larger power: | |
| There’ll be the loco-boiler next an’ thirty miles an hour! | 30 |
| Thirty an’ more. What I ha’ seen since ocean-steam began | |
| Leaves me na doot for the machine: but what about the man? | |
| The man that counts, wi’ all his runs, one million mile o’ sea: | |
| Four time the span from earth to moon…. How far, O Lord, from Thee | |
| That wast beside him night an’ day? Ye mind my first typhoon? | 35 |
| It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi’ the saloon. | |
| Three feet were on the stokehold-floor—just slappin’ to an’ fro— | |
| An’ cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show. | |
| Marks! I ha’ marks o’ more than burns—deep in my soul an’ black, | |
| An’ times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. | 40 |
| The sins o’ four an’ forty years, all up an’ down the seas. | |
| Clack an’ repeat like valves half-fed…. Forgie ’s our trespasses! | |
| Nights when I’d come on deck to mark, wi’ envy in my gaze, | |
| The couples kittlin’ in the dark between the funnel-stays; | |
| Years when I raked the Ports wi’ pride to fill my cup o’ wrong— | 45 |
| Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong! | |
| Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode— | |
| Jane Harrigan’s an’ Number Nine, The Reddick an’ Grant Road! | |
| An’ waur than all—my crownin’ sin—rank blasphemy an’ wild. | |
| I was not four and twenty then—Ye wadna judge a child? | 50 |
| I’d seen the Tropics first that run—new fruit, new smells, new air— | |
| How could I tell—blind-fou wi’ sun—the Deil was lurkin’ there? | |
| By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes; | |
| By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies, | |
| In port (we used no cargo-steam) I’d daunder down the streets— | 55 |
| An ijjit grinnin’ in a dream—for shells an’ parrakeets, | |
| An’ walkin’-sticks o’ carved bamboo an’ blowfish stuffed an’ dried— | |
| Fillin’ my bunk wi’ rubbishry the Chief put overside. | |
| Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca’, | |
| Milk-warm wi’ breath o’ spice an’ bloom: “McAndrew, come awa’!” | 60 |
| Firm, clear an’ low—no haste, no hate—the ghostly whisper went, | |
| Just statin’ eevidential facts beyon’ all argument: | |
| “Your mither’s God’s a graspin’ deil, the shadow o’ yoursel’, | |
| “Got out o’ books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an’ Hell. | |
| “They mak’ him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt, | 65 |
| “A jealous, pridefu’ fetich, lad, that’s only strong to hurt, | |
| “Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss His red-hot rod, | |
| “But come wi’ Us” (Now, who were They?) “an’ know the Leevin’ God, | |
| “That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, | |
| “But swells the ripenin’ cocoanuts an’ ripes the woman’s breast.” | 70 |
| An’ there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice— | |
| For me, six months o’ twenty-four, to leave or take at choice. | |
| ’Twas on me like a thunderclap—it racked me through an’ through— | |
| Temptation past the show o’ speech, unnameable an’ new— | |
| The Sin against the Holy Ghost?… An’ under all, our screw. | 75 |
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| That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin’ swell. | |
| Thou knowest all my heart an’ mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell. | |
| Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell! | |
| Yet was Thy Hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy Care— | |
| Fra’ Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o’ despair, | 80 |
| But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!… | |
| We dared na run that sea by night but lay an’ held our fire, | |
| An’ I was drowsin’ on the hatch—sick—sick wi’ doubt an’ tire: | |
| “Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin’ o’ desire!” | |
| Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs—again, an’ once again, | 85 |
| When rippin’ down through coral-trash ran out our moorin’-chain; | |
| An’, by Thy Grace, I had the Light to see my duty plain. | |
| Light on the engine-room—no more—bright as our carbons burn. | |
| I’ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return! * * * * * | |
| Obsairve. Per annum we’ll have here two thousand souls aboard— | 90 |
| 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. | 95 |
| 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 ony 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; | 100 |
| 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. | 105 |
| (Hail, Snow and 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— | 110 |
| 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. | 115 |
| An’ yet I like the wark for all we’ve dam’ few pickin’s here— | |
| No pension, an’ the most we’ll 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 cannot afford | 120 |
| 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!) | 125 |
| 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 heads 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— | 130 |
| 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 cup wi’ oil—this isn’t the Cunard! | 135 |
| 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, | 140 |
| 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 McAndrew, don’t you think steam spoils romance at sea?” | 145 |
| 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— | 150 |
| 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, | 155 |
| 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, decreed, | |
| To work, Ye’ll note, at any tilt an’ every rate o’ speed. | 160 |
| 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: | 165 |
| “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! | 170 |
| 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, | 175 |
| 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! | 180 |
| 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…. | 185 |
| ’Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought | |
| What your good leddy costs in coal?… I’ll burn ’em down to port. | |
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