Oh, ’twere a noble death to die! My heart swells big with pride! And though I weep, yet proud am I To think how father died. I wish that I were but a man, In firemen’s rig I’d dress; “Hurrah, my boys, don’t lag!” I’d shout As loudly as the rest. What though I met my father’s fate? I am sure I could not die In nobler cause, nor half so great: But, mother, do not cry. God bless thee, boy! and ever may Untarnish’d be thy name; Let cowards skulk, crave thou a way That leads to endless fame. ’Tis winter now, but when the spring Returns, my boy shall go With me where wild birds sweetly sing, And fragrant flowers grow. To-morrow I will give thee seed Of flowers choice to save; And when we go to Greenwood, plant Them round the fireman’s grave. I grieve to see thee, mother, look So very pale and worn; I would I could restore the rose Grief from thy cheek has torn. How often, when so lovingly, You kiss me in my bed, I cry myself to sleep, and dream I see my mother dead. But my heart shall bless the fireman, And sacred hold his name, It proudly should emblazon’d be Upon the scroll of fame. Song of the Locomotive. 35 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 by 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 the sun’s bright rays are cast; At the midnight hour I fly on my way, Like a death-fiend howling past. I bear the wealth of a thousand climes, The spoils of a briny sea, The produce of lands where the church-bells chime, And the gold of the dark Caffree. 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.