Song of the Locomotive.
Beware! beware! for I come in my might,
With a scream and a scowl of scorn;
With a speed like the mountain eagle’s flight,
When he rides the breeze of morn.
Avaunt! avaunt! for I heed you not,
Nor pause for the cry of pain;
I rejoice o’er the slaughter my wheels have wrought,
And I laugh at the mangled slain.
Away—away—o’er valley; plain—