Like a death-fiend howling past.
I bear the wealth of a thousand climes,
The spoils of a briny sea,
The produce of lands where the church-bells chime,
And the gold of the dark Caffree.
I roar on the beach of the roaring deep,
Where the sea-shells touch my wheels;
Through the desert land with a howl I sweep,
And the yellow harvest fields.
I speed through the city’s busy streets,