The 6.15 from Paddington - Steam Days
The 6.15 from Paddinton goes chugging down the track,
The Guard blows on his whistle, and the engine whistles back.
The carriages are following, swaying as they go,
The passengers are also swaying to and fro.
Through Maidenhead, Reading and Newbury in Berks,
The monster travels onwards, with steam, grey smoke and sparks.
Past Swindon down in Wiltshire and then Chipping Sodbury,
Through tunnels, over bridges, always in a 'big' hurry.
The countryside goes whooshing by, as we travel on,
With fields, lanes and cottages, one moment seen, then gone.
Villages, farms and valleys, tree clad hills and downs,
Flashing past the windows, with 'swishy swooshy' sounds.
It now approaches Bristol, the driver applies the brakes,
With screeching and with creaking, what a hullabaloo it makes.
It's reached it's destination where the Porter and the Clerk,
Will check on all the passengers, before they disembark.
The loud station announcer declares she's the next train out,
The fireman stokes the boiler, and the green flag's waved about.
The train is off and whistles, as it thunders out of view,
The trails of smoke are lifting and the sun is breaking through.
The 6.15 from Paddington is now on her way to Wales,
To Cardiff and to Swansea, for the shops and summer sales.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes
Joy on the Trains at Jubilee Time
At the station, the platform is packed.
Soon our train is heading down the track.
As our London-bound train slowly approaches,
I am surprised by the evident lack of coaches.
The ensuing rush to get on, is all rather manic.
The Guard blows his whistle and everyone panics.
Upon the platform, there's soon no one left,
But many new passengers are out of breath.
Once onboard, there is standing room only:
There's certainly no chance of being lonely.
Of vacant seats, I see there is a major lack,
So I stand, holding on to the luggage rack.
Some people are huddled up by the doors,
Whilst others plump for a seat on the floor.
At the next station, they don't release all the doors:
Our already packed train can only take a few more.
By the time that our train reaches Woking,
It's a real nightmare - I wish I was joking,
But passengers are left abandoned on the platform:
Their faces disappointed, they all look so forlorn.
I overhear a number of passengers complain
About the distinct lack of carriages on our train.
During my journey, I spend most of my time
Thinking up sentences which, nicely, rhyme.
By the time our train pulls in to Waterloo,
With my new poem, I am almost through.
We're ten minutes late and the Guard explains
This was due to passengers boarding the train.
When I head home again, it is getting quite late.
And the number of carriages now totals eight.
No one is standing: everybody has a seat.
I travel home in comfort. Oh, what a treat!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Steam Dreams
In this day of electric and diesel, very rarely is seen,
A shining locomotive, which is powered by steam.
Back in the days, when my parents were born,
The sight of a steam train was quite the norm.
Whenever a steam train catches my eye,
I stand, watching in awe, as it passes by.
‘Oh wow! Look! ’ I say, as I point a finger,
And the memory of it in my mind will linger.
Steam trains will never completely die out,
As, thankfully, there’s still quite a few about.
About a steam train, there’s something really quite dramatic.
And at the chance of riding on one, people are often ecstatic.
I remember seeing The Flying Scotsman at Salisbury station,
And I stood there marvelling at it with such great admiration.
The engine and all of its carriages just looked so smart.
The sight of such a train, never fails to quicken the heart.
Steam trains are so very elegant in their style.
To spot one, enthusiasts will travel many a mile.
It strange to think that years ago, they were all the rage,
When, they are such a very rare sight, in this day and age.
The sight of the world famous Orient Express,
Is one which will never ever fail to impress.
Through the windows, you can see the plush seats,
Where excited passengers will sit down and eat.
On board, the historic carriages of brown and cream,
They serve expensive champagne and gourmet cuisine.
Sat in a world of pure indulgence, passengers glide,
Through the green and pleasant British countryside.
The carriages have all been restored to their former glory;
If they could talk, I’m sure they could all share quite a story.
The carriages have been described as ‘palaces on wheels’,
And I would really love to know just how that feels.
Still being a very rare sight in these modern times,
I fancy taking a trip on a steam train, to sit and dine.
I guess you would have to pay quite a princely sum,
But I think it would be worth it, just to travel on one.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Chasing The Train
Two young boys ran down the lane,
Playing the game of chasing the train,
As it puffed its way proudly along,
Chugging out its rhythmic song,
This was of course the age of steam,
Engines were then, an Engineers dream,
Producing such mighty pulling power,
Travelling onwards, hour after hour.
Over steel tracks, tearing up the miles,
Oh, you should have seen the happy smiles,
That emanated, seemingly with such an ease,
From enthusiasts who had tried to squeeze,
Into the carriages all swaying along,
They too just loved the rhythmic song,
And waved to the two young boys in the lane,
Playing the game of chasing the train.
This was inspired by a watercolour of two boys running alongside a steam engine travelling through the countryside parallel with a country lane. The picture was painted by Don Breckon '77.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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To Frinton-on-Sea by Train - The Annual Pilgrimage,1910
When in the large compartment,
Everyone was seated.
And all the luggage loaded,
The family group completed.
Excitement as the train now
Leaves the local station.
Everyone perceiving
A feeling of elation.
The Servants in the Third Class
All with faces radiant,
The train now fairly straining
Up it's first steep gradient.
Smoke rising from the engine,
Through the countryside it races,
Such a rattling and a clattering,
Rhythmic chugging as it paces.
Nurse is quietly rocking baby,
Mother dozing, Father reading.
Children gazing through the window,
Trees and streams seem to be speeding.
Realisation, train is stopping,
Doors are opening, whistles blare,
All alighting from the carriage,
Platforms busy. Great sea air!
Call the porter for the luggage,
What! No luggage, this can't be,
'Did you tip the porter Father? '
Mother calls out nervously.
Father fuming calls the Driver,
Calls ths Station Master too,
Sorry Sir, it's not our doing
We will send it on to you.
Father marching to the taxi,
Mother fretting following along,
Nurse with baby shrieking loudly
Children calling, 'What is wrong? '.
Father should have tipped the porter,
Much more than a farthing's worth,
So he didn't load the luggage,
In the 'First Class' luggage berth.
It arrived early next morning,
By the first train down the track,
So as to the moral of this story,
If you're too mean, watch out Jack!
© Ernestine Northover
This poem was written from a story handed down through the family, and the 'Father' was my husband's Great Grandfather, and it is absolutely true, he was a very mean man. A Farthing being the lowest coinage of that time. We have photos of them all sitting on the sand, in full dress with the ladies in huge feathered hats. A wonderful sight! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Janice and You at Waterloo Station
At Waterloo Station
the steam engines
puffed powerful steam
reaching up
to the rooftop
and you stood there
hands in your pockets
your nose sniffing in
the white and grey smell
you can taste it
on your tongue
and Janice beside you
her eyes looked up
at the rooftop
as the steam
reached high
her hands clutching
the small bag
I want to be a train driver
when I'm older
you said
I want to smell
that smell
and breathe in
that steam and shovel
coal in the engine
maybe you will
Janice said
maybe you'll be
on a train like that
big and black
and powerful
she put her hand
under your arm
and squeezed
Gran said we can be
what we want
if we want it
bad enough
Janice added
you felt her hand
under your arm
sensed her squeeze it
we went to the seaside
on a big black train
like this last year
you said
and I put my head
out the train window
and my mum said
keep your head in
or a train
will knock it off
that'd be horrible
Janice said
she clutched
closer to you
as the steam train
puffed out more steam
and the sound was loud
and powerful
and she said
maybe
when you're an engine driver
you can take me
to the seaside
with Gran
yes
you said
and if you come
to the engine
before you take off
I can show you
the engine
and how powerful it is
and she smiled
and put her head
on your shoulder
yes
you said softly
when I grow up
and when I am older.
poem by Terry Collett
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trum...trum....Its a Train..! ! !
I love to travel in a train
in a bumping and humping bogie..
A long, beautiful
chugging train
with dad, mom and bro.
I love to travel in a train
that breaks into the platform,
with thundering wheels
and-
a whistle blown
I love to travel in a train
passing through
tunnels-
stretched and curved.
lights off,
howling on,
it is wonderful to be on a train..
I love to travel in a train
and roam all around the world
for ever and ever...
poem by Ananda Gopan
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The Stag Party
To the ‘stags' standing up in my carriage,
I realise that one of you is soon to be married,
But please couldn't all of you just take a seat?
And do I really have to listen to that beat?
No doubt you'll all be out on the town tonight,
But to disturb other passengers, you have no right.
Your spirits are obviously soaring way up high,
And I notice that the Guard has turned a blind eye.
Your weekend of fun, I do not wish to mar,
But you are on a train, lads: not in a bar!
You've all obviously had quite a bit to drink:
I wonder what our fellow passengers all think?
Why don't you save the high jinks for later on?
Then, if you want, you can even burst into song!
I had been planning to sit here and read my book,
But, out of the train window, I now sit and look.
The seats on the other carriages were mostly reserved.
Tone it down a bit! You're getting right on my nerves!
This particular carriage, I had no choice, but to pick,
And you guys are really starting to get on my wick.
You're chatting non-stop and laughing out loud:
Why do you have to be such an annoying crowd?
For other passengers, you have no consideration,
And I'm glad that you're leaving at the next station.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The End Of The Track
The train will stop at the end of the track
When the journey's over, there's no turning back
The rear view mirror reflecting the past
Of memories precious that hopefully last
The 'All Aboard' shout warns at the start
That our engine of life is about to depart
We steam through life's gorge, day after day
Never dreaming at all, it would be a short stay
Perhaps we'll be wiser, when we've reached this location
When our ride's nearly over, when we're in our last station
The train will stop at the end of the track
When the journey's over, there's no turning back
poem by Stanley Cooper
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Welsh Highland Railway
A belch of smoke and steam,
and a whistle wail
we move with a clickty-clack along the rails.
Then with the train then gathering speed,
our journey begins with more whistle wails.
The carriage throws us around this way and that
as the old steam train rolls down the track.
Visions of happy days gone by,
with billowing smoke and steam.
Fragrancing the air on our ride
of nostalgic days and old ways.
As we ride the rails on a train
of the Welsh Highland Railway.
poem by David Harris
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Cooking Recalls The Past
The steam is hissing from the spout
As the pressure cooker pushes it out
Takes my back to my childhood past
As great steam engines go flying past
Huffing and puffing plumes of smoke
You cough and splutter it makes you choke
The ground it shakes under foot
As you hear that high pitched toot
Traveling along its metal road
Its boiler bubbling to near explode
As it carries its heavy load
Driver on his footplate stood
Face covered in oil and with soot
Proud was he as was his dad
For an engine driver he was glad
Timer rings cooking done
Brings me back form times of childhood fun
25 10 10
Chellaston
poem by Jim O'Donnell
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Big City Train
Can you hear that whistle
Loud clackety-clack
Its calling me
The station is where its at
Its coming again now
Chuggin down that track
Just check your records
Got all my bags packed
Youll always find me waiting for that train to come through
Come get me, take me, to the land where my dreams come true
This time Ill board that train
It wont be long
Check the label on my baggage
Destination in my song
Talk to the conductor
Saved up my fare
Yakety-yak for a while
Choo choo!
Chorus:
Hurry grab my luggage
Hurry grab my bags
It seems the locomotive
Has been taken another track
A penny brought on by mischief
A penny, a form of cash
Has been placed upon the railway
We are destined to be a smash!
song performed by by Gwen Stefani
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solidarity
The last train stopped at midnight
With the passengers!
A mechanicl fault it seems.
And an old bus towed her
To the last destination!
All the passengers and the disabled train
Gave lot of thanks to the bus.
That's all!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Photograph
She sat on the platform bench
waiting for a train to arrive.
Waiting to see her brother
who left to start a new life
twenty-five years ago.
She brought a photograph of herself
for him to have when he went back home.
Stillness engulfed the station
as she waited alone there.
The hiss of an old steam train
filled the quiet air
as along the track it came
like a dinosaur from the past
and stopped at the station.
A group of young soldiers
disembarked to stretch their legs
and grab some fresh air.
One young soldier approached her.
He was sixteen if he was a day.
He smiled as he sat beside her.
“You’re a pretty lady.” He said.
“Thank you.” She replied. “Off to fight some battles? ”
“Yes, but I am not really sure where.
They say a lot of us might not be coming back”
“That is sad.” She replied.
“Especially when you have no one
to think of you.”
“You see I am an orphan
and have no family or a girlfriend come to that.
No one to think of me
when the great battles come.”
“Now that is sad, ” She said looking at him.
Then she realized the photograph
for her brother was in her handbag.
She reached in and removed it.
“Take this and think of me
when your great battles come.”
“I will keep it with me always.
Now I must get back on the train.”
As the train whistle blew.
He waved goodbye as the steam engulfed him.
Then the train was gone
as quickly as it had come.
The stillness that had engulfed the station
now dissipated to.
Suddenly there was noise everywhere.
She looked around
as if waking from a dream.
She looked back down the tracks.
The mournful hoot of the electric horn
herald the arriving electric train.
She watched it intensely
as it slowed to stop at the station.
Two passengers alighted,
a man and a woman.
Her brother and his wife.
She greeted them with a smile,
but her brother’s wife looked at her in shock
as if she had seen a ghost.
They hugged one another,
and then left the station
to go to her home.
Arriving at her home
her sister-in-law looked at her again.
“Sorry if I look mystified when I look at you.
I have something I must tell you.
My grandfather before he died
asked me to find any relatives
to a lady in a photograph.
It was given to him
when he was leaving to go to war
over seventy years ago.
He carried it with him everywhere he went.
He said the photograph protected him
like a good luck charm.
He swore one day to return it,
but events made that impossible.
He immigrated when the war was over
and never got the chance.
He wanted to let her family know
of the kind deed she did”
“But that does not explain
the way you looked at me.”
She removed the photograph
and handed it to her.
It was the photograph
she had given the young soldier
only hours before.
9 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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Freight Train Boogie / Choo Choo Ch'boogie
(GriffinHorton, Darling, Gabler)
Casey Jones was a mighty man, now he's resting in the Promised Land.
The only thing he could understand was an eight-wheel driver under his command.
He made the freight train boogie all the time.
He made the freight train boogie as he rolled down the line.
Woo woo, wah wah, woo woo, wah wah. Woo woo, wah wah, woo woo, wah wah.
He made the freight train boogie as he rolled down the line.
I'm headed for the station with my pack on my back,
I'm tired of transportation in the back of a hack.
I just love the rhythm of the clickity-clack,
I hear the whistle blowing, see the smoke from the stack.
And pal around with democratic fellas named Mac,
Take me right back to the track, Jack.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie, woo woo, woo woo ch'boogie.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie, take me right back to the track, Jack.
You reach your destination and alas and alack,
You need some compensation to get back in the black.
You take a morning paper from the top of the stack
and read the situation from the front to the back.
The only job that's open needs a man with a knack,
take me right back to the track, Jack.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie, woo woo, woo woo ch'boogie.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie, take me right back to the track, Jack.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie, woo woo, woo woo ch'boogie.
Choo choo, choo choo ch'boogie,
He made the freight train boogie as he rolled down the line.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Passing Thought
The train
Moved,
And
In no time
We
Were out
In the countryside.
Pink clouds
Dotted the evening sky.
Far out,
Paddy fields.
Smoke
Billowing out
Of the chimneys.
Dim lights
In the cottages
Of sparsely populated
Villages.
Soon its
Twilight,
All is quiet.
Just a few miles
Away from the city,
Which comes to life
At night,
With
Nocturnal activities.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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At Old Railroad Stations
At these tiny old railroad stations,
Which my own train long ago left behind,
I fear for the pressing crush of people
Departing, who pass on this stretch of track.
And I would like to see myself rise
Above the ones waiting on the platform,
So that I am as far as I can be now
On my journey in this rattlebox life,
So that I know bridges and tunnels,
The sea-, lake-, rock-, and cityscapes,
So my eyes and ears are pierced with knowing,
With those unknown in their seats,
So that they'll still be sitting in Times' train,
Brooding at the window, watching sparks fly
And the flashing of the tragic signals,
When I long got off at the destination.
poem by Franz Werfel
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Freight Train Blues
(first releasetraditional, arranged by bob dylan)
I was born in dixie in a boomers shack,
Just a little shanty by the railroad track
Freight train was it taught me how to cry,
The holler of the driver was my lullaby.
Ive got the freight train blues (hee, hee, hoo)
Oh, lawdy mama got em on the bottom of my ramblin shoes
And when the whistle blows, I gotta go
Baby dont you know
It looks like Im never gonna lose
The freight train blues.
Well, my daddy was a fireman and my mama hear
She was the only daughter of the engineer
My sweetheart loved the brakeman and that aint no joke
Its a shame the way she keeps a good man broke.
I got the freight train blues (hee, hee, hoo)
Oh, lawdy I got em in the bottom of my ramblin shoes
And when the whistle blows, I gotta go
Oh mama dont you know
Well it looks like Im never gonna lose
The freight train blues.
Well, the only thing that makes you laugh again
Is a south bound whistle on a south bound train
Every place I want to go
I never can go because you know
Because I got the freight train blues (hee, hee, hoo)
Oh, lawdy mama, got em on the bottom of my ramblin shoes
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The homebound night train whistles
There he goes home carrying holey bags full of hopes
After the eternal struggle.
Though it's an express train the kind Engine driver stops at every station as he doesn't want to leave the passengers in the darkness.
But some they do not encourage the delay.
Through the dim lights in the compartment he recognizes his friends.
Some with gray beards and walking sticks.
He secretly looks at the window pane through his thick glasses
And realizes that he too become old gradually.
He deeply think of his family
Already they must have come to the village ruined station and wait at the platform eagerly.
It seemed to be a re-union but he has to come back on the same train some other day to fight with the decaying life again.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Messy Life...
this house where we live
is just a train station and we are the trains always leaving to places
leaving smoke and
splinters of our
steel wheels
then when the real time comes for change
we only become passengers moving and moving and waving hands
the train station becomes a mark
that we soon forget in the books
on broken ears
and folded pages but we do not remember any page
not even the idea
of the character that we claim to have loved that much
things are messy really
but who cares? we look forward to the flashes of hills and towns
everything fades
like overused denims.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Smoke Along The Track
(alan rose)
One day the train was passin
I caught it comin by
To look this old world over under gods blue sky
My darlin stood there weepin as I was looking back
I kissed my baby cryin in the smoke along the track
Goodbye so long until I come back home
Youll be my dream
Goodbye so long, theres lots of places that Ive never seen
Ill always be a drifter but Ill be driftin back
To where I left you cryin in the smoke along the track
I like to keep on goin it helps me when Im blue
I get the urge to travel thats all I want to do
I just cant settle down because I like to roam
And when I hear that whistle blow Ive gotta move along
Goodbye so long theres something down the track keeps callin me
Goodbye so long I guess thats just the way Ill always be
So when I get that feelin dont try to hold me back
Id only leave you crying in that smoke along the track
I know my baby loves me I love my baby too
But he dont understand me when Im feelin blue
And when I hear that whistle blow, I hurry home and pack
And leave my baby cryin in the smoke along the track.
Goodbye, so long, I hate to leave you, but Ive got to go
Goodbye, so long, its coming down just hear that whistle blow
Itll be here in a minute, youll wave and Ill look back
Im gonna leave you cryin in the smoke along the track.
Goodbye so long until I come back home
Youll be my dream
Goodbye so long, theres lots of places that Ive never seen
Ill always be a drifter but Ill be driftin back
To where I left you cryin in the smoke along the track
To where I left you cryin in the smoke along the track
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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