Eyes that can smile when their fellows call,
A spike-driver each, but a man.
Rumble and roar! On the tracks they lay,
We ride in our parlor car.
Spades on their shoulders, they give us way,
Lords of the near and the far.
Polack and Slav and dark-browed Greek—
Human under the tan—
Up go their hands, and their faces speak,
Saluting us, man and man.