Italians, Magyars, aliens all—
Human under the tan—
Eyes that can smile when their fellows call,
A spike-driver each, but a man.
Rumble and roar! On the tracks they lay
We ride in our parlor car.
Spades on their shoulders, they give us way,
Lords of the near and the far.

Polack and Slav and dark-eyed Greek—
Human under the tan—
Up go their hands, and their faces speak,
Saluting us, man and man.
Cushioned seats, and our souls at ease,
Dainty in food and fare,
We are the masters their toil must please,
Or face gaunt-cheeked despair.

Russian and Irishman, Croat and Swede—
Human under the tan—
Giving us homage while making us speed,
As only the generous can,
Riding and riding, hats in our hands,
Something warm in the eye,
Fellows, in spite of your skins and lands,
We greet you rushing by.