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....
_Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find her runnin' hard?
Ye needn't swill the cap 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 McAndrews, don't you think steam spoils roman