[Only the Brakesman, in] One hundred Choice Selections No. 22 A repository of Readings and Recitations, comprising brilliant oratory, thrilling pathos, sparkling humor, impassioned eloquence, laughable burlesque, temperance effusions, &c. uniform with the preceding numbers |
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 | [Only the Brakesman, in] One hundred Choice Selections No. 22 |  |
115
ONLY THE BRAKESMAN.
“Only the brakesman killed”—say, was that what they said?
The brakesman was our Joe; so then—our Joe is dead!
Dead? Dead? Dead?—But I cannot think it's so;
It was some other brakesman, it cannot be our Joe.
The brakesman was our Joe; so then—our Joe is dead!
Dead? Dead? Dead?—But I cannot think it's so;
It was some other brakesman, it cannot be our Joe.
Why, only this last evening I saw him riding past;
The trains don't stop here often—go rushing by as fast
As lightning—but Joe saw me, and waved his hand; he sat
On the very last old coal-car; how do you 'count for that
The trains don't stop here often—go rushing by as fast
As lightning—but Joe saw me, and waved his hand; he sat
On the very last old coal-car; how do you 'count for that
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That he was killed alone and the others saved, when he
Was last inside the tunnel? Come now, it couldn't be.
It's some mistake, of course; 'twas the fireman, you'll find:
The engine struck the rock, and he was just behind—
Was last inside the tunnel? Come now, it couldn't be.
It's some mistake, of course; 'twas the fireman, you'll find:
The engine struck the rock, and he was just behind—
And the roof fell down on him, not on Joe, our Joe. I saw
That train myself, the engine had work enough to draw
The coal-cars full of coal that rattled square and black
By tens and twenties past our door along that narrow track
That train myself, the engine had work enough to draw
The coal-cars full of coal that rattled square and black
By tens and twenties past our door along that narrow track
On, into the dark mountains. I never see those peaks
'Thout hating them. For much they care whether the water leaks
Down their sides to wet the stones that arch the tunnels there
So long, so black, they all may go, and much the mountains care!
'Thout hating them. For much they care whether the water leaks
Down their sides to wet the stones that arch the tunnels there
So long, so black, they all may go, and much the mountains care!
I'm sorry for that fireman!—What's that? I don't pretend
To more than this. I saw that train, and Joe was at the end,
The very end, I tell you! Come don't stand here and mock—
What! It was there, right at this end the tunnel caved, the rock
To more than this. I saw that train, and Joe was at the end,
The very end, I tell you! Come don't stand here and mock—
What! It was there, right at this end the tunnel caved, the rock
Fell on him? But I don't believe a word.—Yes, that's his chain,
And that's his poor old silver watch; he bought it—what's this stain
All over it? Why, it is red!—O Joe, my boy, O Joe,
Then it was you, and you are dead down in that tunnel. Go
And that's his poor old silver watch; he bought it—what's this stain
All over it? Why, it is red!—O Joe, my boy, O Joe,
Then it was you, and you are dead down in that tunnel. Go
And bring my boy back! He was all the son I had; the girls
Are very well, but not like Joe. Such pretty golden curls
Joe had until I cut them off at four years old; he ran
To meet me always at the gate, my bonnie little man.
Are very well, but not like Joe. Such pretty golden curls
Joe had until I cut them off at four years old; he ran
To meet me always at the gate, my bonnie little man.
You don't remember him? But then you've only seen him when
He rides by on the coal-trains among the other men,
All of them black and grimed with coal, and circles round their eyes,
Whizzing along by day and night.—But you would feel surprise
He rides by on the coal-trains among the other men,
All of them black and grimed with coal, and circles round their eyes,
Whizzing along by day and night.—But you would feel surprise
To see how fair he is when clean on Sundays, and I know
You'd think him handsome then; I'll have—God! I forget! O Joe,
My boy! my boy! and are you dead? So young,—but twenty.—Dead
Down in that awful tunnel, with the mountain overhead!
You'd think him handsome then; I'll have—God! I forget! O Joe,
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Down in that awful tunnel, with the mountain overhead!
They're bringing him? Oh, yes! I know; they'll bring him, and, what's more
They'll do it free, the company! They'll leave him at my door
Just as he is, all grimed and black.—Jane put the irons on,
And wash his shirt, his Sunday-shirt; it's white; he did have one
They'll do it free, the company! They'll leave him at my door
Just as he is, all grimed and black.—Jane put the irons on,
And wash his shirt, his Sunday-shirt; it's white; he did have one
White shirt for best, and proud he wore it Sunday with a tie
Of blue, a new one. O my boy, how could they let you die
Crushed by those rocks! If I'd been there I'd heaved them off, I know
They could have done it if they'd tried. They let you die for oh—
Of blue, a new one. O my boy, how could they let you die
Crushed by those rocks! If I'd been there I'd heaved them off, I know
They could have done it if they'd tried. They let you die for oh—
“Only the brakesman!” and his wage was small. The engineer
Must first be seen to there in front.—My God! it stands as clear
Before my eyes as though I'd seen it all—the dark—the crash—
The hissing steam—the wet stone sides—the arch above—the flash
Must first be seen to there in front.—My God! it stands as clear
Before my eyes as though I'd seen it all—the dark—the crash—
The hissing steam—the wet stone sides—the arch above—the flash
Of lanterns coming—and my boy, my poor boy lying there,
Dying alone under the rocks; only his golden hair
To tell that it was Joe,—a mass all grimed, that doesn't stir;
But mother'll know you, dear, 'twill make no difference to her
Dying alone under the rocks; only his golden hair
To tell that it was Joe,—a mass all grimed, that doesn't stir;
But mother'll know you, dear, 'twill make no difference to her
How black with coal-dust you may be, your poor, hard working hands
All torn and crushed, perhaps; yes, yes—but no one understands
That even though he's better off, poor lad, where he has gone,
I and the girls are left behind to stand it and live on
All torn and crushed, perhaps; yes, yes—but no one understands
That even though he's better off, poor lad, where he has gone,
I and the girls are left behind to stand it and live on
As best we can without him! What? A wreath? A lady sent
Some flowers? Was passing through and heard, felt sorry—well, 'twas meant
Kindly, no doubt; but poor Joe'd been the very first to laugh
At white flowers round his blackened face.—You'll write his epitaph—
Some flowers? Was passing through and heard, felt sorry—well, 'twas meant
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At white flowers round his blackened face.—You'll write his epitaph—
What's that? His name and age? Poor boy! poor Joe! his name has done
Its work in this life; for his age, he was not twenty-one,
Well grown but slender, far too young for such a place, but then
He wanted to “help mother,” and to be among the men,
Its work in this life; for his age, he was not twenty-one,
Well grown but slender, far too young for such a place, but then
He wanted to “help mother,” and to be among the men,
For he was always trying to be old; he carried wood
And built the fires for me before he hardly understood
What a fire was—my little boy, my darling baby Joe—
There's something snapped within my breast, I think; it hurts me so,
And built the fires for me before he hardly understood
What a fire was—my little boy, my darling baby Joe—
There's something snapped within my breast, I think; it hurts me so,
It must be something broken. What is that? I felt the floor
Shake; there's some one on the step—Go Jeannie, set the door
Wide open for your brother Joe is coming home. They said,
“Only the brakesman”—but it is my only son that's dead!
Shake; there's some one on the step—Go Jeannie, set the door
Wide open for your brother Joe is coming home. They said,
“Only the brakesman”—but it is my only son that's dead!
| [Only the Brakesman, in] One hundred Choice Selections No. 22 | |