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-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. 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 any 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 bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift. (Hail, snow an' 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-- 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 everyone 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 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 can not 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 fire-bars 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 head 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....