CASEY JONES

The only known authentic photograph of Casey in the cab of an engine. This is a detail from the photo of the 638 on the Illinois Central Rail Road.

CASEY  JONES

Come all you rounders if you want to hear

a story about a brave Engineer;

Casey Jones was the Rounder's name,

On an six-eight wheeler, boys, he won his fame.

Caller called Casey at a half-past four,

He kissed his wife at the station door,

Mounted to the cabin with his orders in his hand

And he took his farewell trip to the promised land.

 

Casey Jones, mounted to the cabin,

Casey Jones, with his orders in his hand!

Casey Jones, mounted to the cabin,

And took his farewell trip into the promised land.

 

Put in your water and shovel in your coal,

Put your head out the window, watch them drivers roll,

I'll run her till she leaves the rail,

'Cause we're eight hours late with the western mail!

He looked at his watch and his watch was slow,

Looked at the water and the water was low,

Turned to his Fireman and then he said,

"We're going to reach 'Frisco, but we'll all be dead"

 

Casey Jones! going to reach Frisco,

Casey Jones, but we'll all be dead!

Casey Jones, going to reach Frisco,

we're going to reach Frisco but we'll all be dead!

 

Casey pulled up that Reno Hill,

Tooted for the crossing with a awful shrill,

The switchman knew by the engine's moan

That the man at the throttle was Casey Jones.

He pulled up short two miles of the place,

Number four stared him right in the face,

Turned to his Fireman, said, "you'd better jump,

'Cause there's two Locomotives thats a going to bump!"

 

Casey Jones! two locomotives,

Casey Jones, thats a going to bump!

Casey Jones, two locomotives,

There's two locomotives thats a going to bump!

 

Casey said, just before he died,

"There's two more roads that I'd like to ride."

Fireman said, "what could they be?"

"The Southern Pacific and the Santa Fe"

Mrs. Jones sat on her bed a-sighin',

Got a message that Casey was dyin',

Said, "go to bed children and hush your cryin',

'Cause you got another papa on the Salt Lake line."

 

Casey Jones! got another papa,

 Casey Jones, on the Salt Lake Line,

Casey Jones, got another papa,

You got another Papa on the Salt Lake Line!

 

NOTES

On the night of April 29 1900,Casey and engine 382 with Sim Webb firing were listed out of Memphis on train #1 with six cars southbound for Canton. Conductor was J. C. Turner. The scheduled departure time was 11:15. Records indicate he left at 12:50; one hour and thirty-five minutes late. A good engine, a good fireman, a light train and away late; the perfect setting for a record run. He made that record run too, if the oft quoted departure time of 12:50 is correct, for Casey went to Goodman on time for a meet with #2. While Casey was rolling south, the stage was being set for his tragic wreck. Freights #72 and #83 were both in the passing track at Vaughan and there were more cars than the track would hold. It was necessary for these trains to move north or south to clear the main line switches in order to allow other trains to pass; this is known as a saw- by. Meanwhile, northbound local passenger #26 arrived from Canton and had to be sawed in on the house track west of the main line. As #83 and #72 sawed back south to clear the north passing track switch, an air house broke on #72 and he couldn't move. Several cars of #83's train were still out on the main line above the north switch. Engine 382 crashed through the caboose and several cars and came to rest on the right side pointing back north. Casey was fatally wounded in the throat. He was carried one-half mile to the depot were he died lying on a baggage wagon. The railroad's formal investigation concluded that "Engineer Jones was solely responsible for the accident as consequence of not having properly responded to flag signals."

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

PAUL  REVERE’S  RIDE

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

 

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light -

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

 

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade -

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town,

And the moonlight flowing over all.

 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night-encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay -

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

Now gazed at the landscape far and near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! As he looks, on the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns!

 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

 

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

 

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

 

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

 

It was two by the village clock

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled -

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

 

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm -

A cry of defiance and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

 

                            Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE CONQUEROR WORM

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

 

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly-

Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!

 That motley drama! - oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.

 

But see, amid the mimic rout,

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!

It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

 

Out - out are the lights - out all!

And over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, " Man,"

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

                           Edgar Allan Poe

 

NOTE

“ The Conqueror Worm ” first published as a separate poem in 1843, and later in 1845, was incorporated into the text of Poe’s short story “ Ligeia.” The poem seems to imply that all life is a worthless drama that inevitably leads to death.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness - for then

The spirits of the dead, who stood

In life before thee, are again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night - tho’ clear - shall frown -

And the stars shall not look down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like hope to mortals given -

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish -

Now are visions ne'er to vanish -

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more - like dewdrop from the grass.

The breeze - the breath of God - is still -

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy - shadowy - yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token -

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries !

                                  Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849

THE RETREAT

THE  RETREAT

Happy those early days, when I

Shined in my angel-infancy!

Before I understood this place

Appointed for my second race,

Or taught my soul to fancy ought

But a white, celestial thought;

When yet I had not walked above

A mile or two from my first love,

And looking back, at that short space

Could see a glimpse of his bright face;

When on some gilded cloud or flower

My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

And in those weaker glories spy

Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound

My conscience with a sinful sound,

Or had the black art to dispense

A several sin to every sense,

But felt through all this fleshly dress

Bright shoots of everlastingness.

 

O how I long to travel back,

And tread again that ancient track!

That I might once more reach that plain

Where first I felt my glorious train;

From whence the enlightened spirit sees

That shady city of palm trees!

But ah! my soul with too much stay

Is drunk, and staggers in the way.

Some men a forward motion love,

But I by backward steps would move;

And when this dust falls to the urn,

In that state I came, return.

 

                             Henry Vaughan 1622 - 1695