"McAndrews Hymn" by Rudyard Kipling.

Philthechill
24th March 2008, 12:39
For the definitive poem for any "up-and-downer" engineers (or enthusiasts of these fantastic engines) to read then this is the one! I would copy it out myself, and put it on here, but it's far too long! If you put "McAndrews Hymn" in your search-engine you can read it for yourself. Marvellous stuff!!! Salaams, Phil!(Hippy)

Pat Thompson
24th March 2008, 12:48
Greetings,

It's already there in the "Steam Steam Steam" Thread

Aye

Pat Thompson

You can't get enough photos of "O'Boats"

James_C
24th March 2008, 12:51
Here you go Phil:

LORD, Thou hast cast this world beneath 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---
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.
Slam-bang too much---they knock a wee---the crosshead-jibs 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---
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!)
Not but that they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth
say:
``Good morn, 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.
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!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me nae 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?
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.
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 to 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---
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 wadnae judge a child?
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---

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'!''
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' Glesca cold an' dirt,
``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.''
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.
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' Delhi clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
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 gongs---again, an' once again,
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---
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But---average fifteen hunder souls safe-born 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 isnae 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 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;
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 beergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift
Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South
drift.
(Hail, Snow and Ice that praise the Lord. I've met them at their
work,
An wished we had anither route or they another 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'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
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 firebars
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 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---
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!
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 McAndrew, 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 Rabbie 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, forseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye'll note, at ony 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 masel' 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.


Rudyard Kipling

Tony Crompton
24th March 2008, 14:18
Kipling wrote a number of poems about ships and the sea.

One of my favourites is "The Big Steamers"

(not sure if its been on SN before or in the right thread)
---------------------------------
Tony

"OH, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,
With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas? "
"We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."

"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
And where shall I write you when you are away? "
"We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver.
Address us at Hobart, Hong-kong, and Bombay."

"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers,
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?"
"Why, you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."

"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers
For little blue billows and breezes so soft."
"Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers:
We're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."

"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through."
"Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe."

"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?"
"Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food."

For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by All Us Big Steamers
And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!"




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Philthechill
24th March 2008, 16:21
Here you go Phil:

LORD, Thou hast cast this world beneath 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---
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.
Slam-bang too much---they knock a wee---the crosshead-jibs 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---
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!)
Not but that they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth
say:
``Good morn, 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.
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!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me nae 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?
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.
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 to 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---
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 wadnae judge a child?
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---

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'!''
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' Glesca cold an' dirt,
``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.''
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.
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' Delhi clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
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 gongs---again, an' once again,
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---
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But---average fifteen hunder souls safe-born 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 isnae 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 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;
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 beergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift
Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South
drift.
(Hail, Snow and Ice that praise the Lord. I've met them at their
work,
An wished we had anither route or they another 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'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
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 firebars
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 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---
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!
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 McAndrew, 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 Rabbie 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, forseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye'll note, at ony 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 masel' 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.


Rudyard KiplingBot atcha, burra sahib, bot atcha!!! Burra salaams (More to the point, how on earth did you get that lot done!!?) Phil(Hippy)

Philthechill
24th March 2008, 16:32
Greetings,

It's already there in the "Steam Steam Steam" Thread

Aye

Pat Thompson

You can't get enough photos of "O'Boats"
Pat! Hi! Many thanks for pointing-out that McAndrews Hymn is already "on-site" as it were! Typical me, always late for everything. Toodle-pip! Phil(Hippy)