" CHANT OF THE Firemen "

" This is the steamer's pit
The ovens like dragons of fire
Glare thro' their close lidded eyes
With restless hungry desire.

" Down from the tropic night
Rushes the funnelled air;
Our heads expand and fall in;
Our hearts thump huge as despair.

" 'Tis we make the bright hot blood
Of this throbbing inanimate thing;
And our life is no less the fuel
Than the coal we shovel and fling.

" And lest of this we be proud
Or anything but meek,
We are well cursed and paid —
Ten shillings a week! "

Round, round, round in its tunnel
The Shaft turns pitiless strong,
While lost souls cry out in the darkness
" How long, O Lord, how long? "