Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/65

Rh 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.