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    The Song of the Locomotive
    by Berton Braley

    The furnace roared and clamored when the frame of me was cast,
            The hammers trampled ingots under heel,
    The clanging rollers rumbled as they clutched the bars that passed,
            'Till I stood a panting giant, wrought of steel.
    Then the engineer, my master, clambered to his leather seat
            And slowly through the busy yards I drew,
    'Till the mail train was complete and I felt my air-pump beat,
            As they coupled me and bade me "Take-'er-through."

                "Clear block! Clear block!" the signals glare
                    "Side track all trains and let me by."
                And over switch and bridge I tear
                    My headlight like a cyclop's eye--
                I am king of the gleaming rail
                For I pull the cars of the Overland Mail.

    When I leave the smoky city I must hold my strength in check
        Where the interlocking switches clank and jar;
    But when I strike the open, oh it's then for me to "trek"
        As the sweating mail clerks labor in the car.
    Then the flanges hold me faithful to the track that men have laid
        And my whistle shrieks a warning far and near,
    And my frame is rocked and swayed as I shoot o'er flat and glade
        At the bidding of my lord, the Engineer!

                "Clear block! Clear block!" the signals say;
                    The Limited itself must wait
                To let me have my sovereign way
                    And go my mile-a-minute gait!
                I am the one who makes the trail
                    For the long blind cars of the Overland Mail.

    Over trestles, through the tunnels, past the the villages asleep,
        With my grunting fireman stoking me like mad,
    I'm a happy giant singing as across the miles I sweep
        For the strength and speed within me make me glad!
    So the train dispatcher routes me, "Side track all for Number 1!"
        And the lantern-swinging switchman does his best,
    'Till my flaring race is done as I end the nightly run
        And I amble to the roadhouse for a rest.

                "Clear block! Clear block!" the signals glow,
                    The right of way is mine! is mine!
                Expresses swift and locals slow
                    Must wait me all along the line.
                I am the one who the watchers hail
                "Ah, there he goes with the Overland Mail!"

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