The driver tends thy furnace fires; the “clerk” he hath my gold;
Swift wheeled and punctual, farewell!—I’m sold, my train, I’m sold!
Farewell! Those swift and tyred wheels full many a mile must glide
To reach old Scotland’s bonnie moors and heather’d mountain side;
Some other man more fortunate must occupy my seat,
The corner place I sat in once must be another’s treat.
The morning sun will dawn again, but not again with thee
Shall I ride along the iron rails where thou art wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the grassy plain
Some other train with slower wheels will bear me on again.