I love—oh, how I love to ride
The Iron Horse in his fiery pride!
All other joys seem dull and vain,
When I lay my hand on his misty mane.
Fear him not! with his ribs of steel,
His flaming throat, and his brushing wheel;
And his smoky crest, so black and tall,
Like a pillar cover’d with a funeral pall.
Though his stamping shakes the solid ground,
And he scatters fire-flakes all around,