A thousand more verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

The first railroad-trains were interesting but prosaic affairs. The locomotive was a rude boiler with a primitive smokestack at one end, and a woodbox at the other—all traveling at a moderate pace, on a track of wooden rails. The cars were mere stage-coaches tied to each other. There was much interest in the enterprise, but no sentiment.

Now, there is a most wonderful change in that respect, as in others. The railroad is as full of romance and sentiment, as is the ocean. The locomotive is often the sweetheart of the driver. The guild of railroad-toilers has its loves, its hates, its fancies, its superstitions. Ghosts are not uncommonly seen by railroad folk, or their fancies. Legends abound among them, full of sentiment.

Oh, no! I'm not toiling on railroads, although I wasn't built for to shirk:
I just limp around in the shops, here, and criticise other folks' work.
And there's plenty more classy can do that and haven't got my chance to explain
And never went down an embankment, along with an engine or train.

'Twas on a bright morning—the New Year of Eighteen and eighty, and one:
The Boss of our shop says, “An engine blue-blooded as sin, is just done:
And who shall we get for to drive her, that's shown he can dare and can do?
My Boss says his Boss says the honor is mostly pertainin' to you.

“You take her, and court her, and keep her, as long, let it be understood,
As you two can manage together, and do what we call ‘making good’;
And don't fret her too much at starting—an engine's a woman, you know;
The more that you study her temper, the better at last she will go.

“This here is a love-child: there's people that works in the place, don't forget,
Put part of their souls in her make-up, to have her the niftiest yet.
And when they do that for an engine, the fact is close-guessed, if not known,
That they pile up a sort of prescription, that gives her a soul of her own.”

I went in there where she was standing; I looked for first time in her eyes,
The boys, they had kept her in cover, God bless 'em, their friend to surprise;
And if there was ever an engine that mortals an angel might call,

'Twas her that stood there 'mongst the others—the certified Queen of them all.

I said “Shall we travel together, my Beauty?” ('twas foolish, I guess)
But out of her glorious splendor, I thought that she smiled me a “Yes”;
Her picture was taken, in grand size; that night, to the big dance it came:
I christened her “Belle of the New Year”—and that was thereafter her name.

My best girl, she almost grew jealous: she says, with her dear little pout,
“You'd better go marry this wonder you're thinking and raving about:
I wish she'd get smashed!” then a moment, her face was like snow to the view:
And she clasped my hand, saying, “Forget it! for that would perhaps murder you!”

Well, Belle and I journeyed together, two years, through the storm and the sun,
With a love which is—what is the word for't? “Platonic”, I think is the one;
And she learned to talk back to me often: she knew how to laugh and be sad,
And to sulk, and to give me my lesson, when things veered a bit to the bad.

But never was schedules filled sleeker, or passengers treated more grand,
Than they was by the “Belle of the New Year” with me holding fast to her hand;
And never was confidence closer, that more and more steadfastly grew,
Than that which gained slowly and surely, and then made its home with us two.

Still, life has its curves unexpected, and bridges to trap you and me;
And that was a terrible winter—of eighteen and eighty and three:
Two years we had been the star-sprinters, in sunshine, and starlight, and shade,

And compliments gemmed us like roses, 'most all of the journeys we made.
And that night, we scrapped with a blizzard, that everything ugly contained!
But the “Belle of the New Year” kept working, and never one second complained;
Not an inch could we see from the pilot; but still we was bound to “make good”;
And work to our time-card as nearly as, battling that snow-storm, we could.
“Keep up to your best, my brave beauty!” I yelled, and believed she could hear,
“It isn't very far to the term'nus—the rest and the shelter are near.”
But a broken rail—sneak-thief of safety!—the Belle drew a long wailing breath,
Then fell on her side, and went rolling a hundred feet down to her death.

She bravely wrenched free from the coaches—the passengers stayed safe and sound,
The fireman jumped into the darkness—we buried him when he was found;
But the Belle wrapped her dear arms around me, as together we made the grim dive;
And my best girl came next day there and found me—all crippled, and bruised—but alive.
We buried the Belle in a garden: 'twas sentiment, maybe you'll say,
But what are the goods of life good for, if one blocks the heart's right of way?
I built up a monument o'er her, and oft my best girl—now my wife—
Strews flowers o'er the Belle of the New Year, and thanks her for saving my life.