I served my time, in the days gone by, <br />In the railway's clash and clang, <br />And I worked my way to the end, and I <br />Was the head of the "Flying Gang". <br />'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand <br />In case of an urgent need; <br />Was it south or north, we were started forth <br />And away at our utmost speed. <br />If word reached town that a bridge was down, <br />The imperious summons rang -- <br />"Come out with the pilot engine sharp, <br />And away with the flying gang." <br />Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam <br />As the engine moved ahead; <br />With measured beat by the slum and street <br />Of the busy town we fled, <br />By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, <br />With the rush of the western gale -- <br />And the pilot swayed with the pace we made <br />As she rocked on the ringing rail. <br />And the country children clapped their hands <br />As the engine's echoes rang, <br />But their elders said: "There is work ahead <br />When they send for the flying gang." <br /> <br />Then across the miles of the saltbush plain <br />That gleamed with the morning dew, <br />Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain <br />The pilot engine flew -- <br />A fiery rush in the open bush <br />Where the grade marks seemed to fly, <br />And the order sped on the wires ahead, <br />The pilot must go by. <br />The Governor's special must stand aside, <br />And the fast express go hang; <br />Let your orders be that the line is free <br />For the boys in the flying gang.<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-flying-gang/
