Why, flesh and blood, as a matter of course! You may talk of iron, and prate of force; But, after all, and do what you can, The best--and cheapest--machine is Man! Wealth knows it well, and the hucksters feel 'Tis safer to trust them to sinew than steel. With a bit of brain, and a conscience, behind, Muscle works better than steam or wind. Better, and longer, and harder all round; And cheap, so cheap! Men superabound Men stalwart, vigilant, patient, bold; The stokehole's heat and the crow's-nest's cold, The choking dusk of the noisome mine, The northern blast o'er the beating brine, With dogged valour they coolly brave; So on rattling rail, or on wind-scourged wave, At engine lever, at furnace front, Or steersman's wheel, _they_ must bear the brunt Of lonely vigil or lengthened strain. _Man_ is in charge of the thundering train! Man, in the shape of a modest chap In fustian trousers and greasy cap; A trifle stolid, and something gruff, Yet, though unpolished, of sturdy stuff. With grave grey eyes, and a knitted brow, The glare of sun and the gleam of snow Those eyes have stared on this many a year. The crow's-feet gather in mazes queer About their corners most apt to choke With grime of fuel and fume of smoke. Little to tickle the artist taste-- An oil-can, a fist-full of "cotton waste," The lever's click and the furnace gleam, And the mingled odour of oil and steam; These are the matters that fill the brain Of the Man in charge of the clattering train. Only a Man, but away at his back, In a dozen ears, on the steely track, A hundred passengers place their trust In this fellow of fustian, grease, and dust. They cheerily chat, or they calmly sleep, Sure that the driver _his_ watch will keep On the night-dark track, that he will not fail. So the thud, thud, thud of wheel upon rail The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark. Lull them to confident drowsiness. Hark! What is that sound? 'Tis the stertorous breath Of a slumbering man,--and it smacks of death! Full sixteen hours of continuous toil Midst the fume of sulphur, the reek of oil, Have told their tale on the man's tired brain, And Death is in charge of the clattering train!