M'Andrew's Hymn by Rudyard Kipling — Read

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, / An', taught by time, I tak' it so -- exceptin' always Steam. / From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God -- / Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. / John Calvin might ha' forged the same -- enorrmous, certain, slow -- / Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame -- _my_ "Institutio". / I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; / I'll stand the middle watch up here -- alone wi' God an' these / My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain / Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again. / Slam-bang too much -- they knock a wee -- the crosshead-gibs are loose; / But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse. / Fine, clear an' dark -- a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, / An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night! / His wife's at Plymouth. Seventy -- / One -- Two -- Three since he began -- / Three turns for Mistress Ferguson. . .and who's to blame the man? / There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow, / Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. / (The year the _Sarah Sands_ was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, / Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws -- fra' Govan to Parkhead! ) / Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say: / "Good-morrn, M'Andrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day? " / Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair / To drink Madeira wi' three Earls -- the auld Fleet Engineer, / That started as a boiler-whelp -- when steam and he were low.

I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow. / Ten pound was all the pressure then -- Eh! Eh! -- a man wad drive; / An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder fifty-five! / We're creepin' on wi' each new rig -- less weight an' larger power: / There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour! / Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began / Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man? / The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea: / Four time the span from earth to moon. How far, O Lord, from Thee? / That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon? / It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon. / Three feet were on the stokehold-floor -- just slappin' to an' fro -- / An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show. / Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns -- deep in my soul an' black, / An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. / The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas, / Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed. Forgie's our trespasses. / Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze, / The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays; / Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong -- / Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong! / Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode -- / Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road! / An' waur than all -- my crownin' sin -- rank blasphemy an' wild.