 | American ballads by Thos. Dunn English |  |
140
JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW.
The journals this morning are full of a tale
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail;
And people are called on to note and admire
How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire,
Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives—
Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives.
But of him who performed such a notable deed
Quite little the journalists give us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail;
And people are called on to note and admire
How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire,
Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives—
Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives.
But of him who performed such a notable deed
Quite little the journalists give us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Away in Nevada—they don't tell us where,
Nor does it much matter—a railway is there
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes:
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread,
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,
And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.
Nor does it much matter—a railway is there
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes:
141
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,
And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.
With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train,
While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain.
As he came to a spot where a curve to the right
Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,
And, peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,
Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire—
The farther extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,
But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain.
As he came to a spot where a curve to the right
Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,
And, peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,
Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire—
The farther extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,
But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still,
And his nerves felt a jar, but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes,
And his lips—not with fear—took the color of ashes.
“If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman; we'll send her ahead.
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! give her her wings!”
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,
This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
And his nerves felt a jar, but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes,
And his lips—not with fear—took the color of ashes.
“If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman; we'll send her ahead.
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! give her her wings!”
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,
This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
142
Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath,
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death;
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell,
Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire
That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire.
With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed;
While the clang of the bell and the steam-pipe's shrill yell
Told the joy of escape from that underground hell
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death;
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell,
Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire
That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire.
With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed;
While the clang of the bell and the steam-pipe's shrill yell
Told the joy of escape from that underground hell
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.
Did the passengers get up a service of plate?
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his knees?
Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?
Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort.
And all that they give us about him to-day,
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is—the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his knees?
Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?
Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort.
And all that they give us about him to-day,
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is—the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
| American ballads by Thos. Dunn English | |