By B.L.Cann

I joined the shed as a humble cleaner,
As a raw recruit, there was no-one keener,
With ash in the eyes, and soot in my hair,
I strove to clean up everywhere!

All classes came, and those I cleaned,
Until those mighty locos gleamed,
And I was black from head to foot,
Covered in grease and baked on soot.

Shed foreman said "You are no dreamer"
"We'll have you in a job that's cleaner!"
So a passed cleaner, I became,
Starting to earn the Fireman's name!

Such useful knowledge had I gained,
Whilst polishing, I had been trained,
Now firing once or twice a week,
Further promotion did I seek!

The turns were very short at first,
I thought my lungs were fit to burst,
But here again I had good training,
As on my feet, coal lumps were raining.

Mutual Improvement was the way,
To get on in that bygone day,
The Rule Book was your bible, too
This was to become part of you.

As I progressed more firing came,
I strove to uphold my good name,
With freight locos of every size,
With trains of each and every guise.

Hard work it was, and no exception,
Before you make an ill conception,
With clinker setting in the grate,
That guaranteed to make you late!

Disposal was the filthy bit,
There was no way to avoid it,
Emptying the clag from the smokebox door,
Or raking ashes to the floor.

Dropping the fire was bad as well,
The pit road like the jaws of Hell,
Off to the pub with eyes bloodshot,
To down a pint that wasn't hot.

Back home to clean up in the tub,
My, how you used to have to scrub!
A wholesome meal was welcome, then,
You'd spend time with wife and children.

The foreman called me as I passed,
"This firing trip should be your last!"
As an inspector shook my hand,
I'm in the link, I understand!

The comradeship of bygone days,
Comes back to haunt you, several ways,
Though we're retired, we linger on,
Despite our locos being gone.