The last run, eh! It seems like
yesterday
I left the Kingston shop and headed
north.
They called me One-five-eight those
days. And green!
I'd shy to hear my own connecting
rods
And switch points had me grabbing at
the rail
For fear that I'd be taking to the
bush.
The tales those other locos had to
tell
When I was making steam for my first
run,
Bush fires, collisions, box cars
piling up,
Were eyewash mostly, if I'd only
known:
But who was I to know? Then out I
go
With Tom Muldoon's hand giving me my
steam.
He knows I'm scary and he treats me
fair.
Up grade and down, I know he's in
control
And, when we take the bridge at
Englehart,
My boiler's nearly bursting in my
pride.
That's thirty-six long years ago and
now
I'm making my last run--the last of
all
The steamers. What a tale we have
to tell
Of pulp and paper, copper, silver,
gold
That pump rich blood into the
nation's veins.
No vain regrets are ours. We did
our job
And now the scrap heap looms for all
of us.
They'll turn eleven hundreds into
pots
And pans, steel rails and tie
plates. But who knows:
My frame may form the girders of
some tower
Thrusting to Heaven, a buffet to
strong winds
And boon companion of the friendly
stars.
Author unknown