Classic Poem

Rusty, an' greasy, an' not very beautiful —
Holes in her fire-box, an' scale in her tubes —
Ready to rock in a manner undutiful,
Rollin' the rookies an' scarin' the rubes;
Loose in her bearin's, an' loose in her habit, too,
Shakin', an' quakin', an' rattlety-bang,
Needin' some paint an' some bolts, an' some babbitt, too —
But she's the pride of the whole of the gang.

Rusty, an' greasy, an' dirty she maybe is,
Wantin' some paint an' a week in the shops,
Cranky perhaps as a colicky baby is,
Spittin' exhaust at the track-layin' wops —
But she can climb any grade that's in front of her,
Hold on a hill any train that's behind:
Thirty-five loads is the regular stunt of her;
Tack on a loader an' she'll never mind.

Railroadin' here ain't the transcontinental kind —
Fifty-pound rail is the best that you get;
Bridges up here ain't the nice, ornamental kind —
Just a few stringers a-crossin' the wet.
Humps in the track, that has many a crick to it,
Rails that are spread, an' old ties that are knurled:
But, turn her loose with a load, an' she'll stick to it,
Stick to the rottenest road in the world!