Standing on the platform wide
We watch the people sat inside
She holds my hand against the throng
It belches steam but hasn’t gone.
Is this our train, is this the one?
She pats my head, be patient son.
The wheels so big, how do they move
Stay on the track between the grooves?
Why does it smoke and let out steam
Who cleans the paint and makes it gleam?
The guard is ready, flag in hand
The driver waits for his command.
Oh how I want to drive this train
No car for me, no ship ,no plane.
To stand upon the footplate proud
To wave at any passing crowd.
It starts to shunt, it gathers pace
I bet he’d win in any race
The rhythm of its belching smoke
Increasing with each piston’s stroke
The boiler working overtime
Creating steam for every climb
Up hills and inclines through the snow
What e’er the weather it must go
I stand in awe of what I’ve seen
That grand leviathan of steam
Now in the distant puffing still
Its whistle faint, its pitch quite shrill
My mother gives my hand a squeeze
Here he comes, she looks so pleased
And waving from the lofty cab
The driver, yes, you’ve guessed, my Dad.