You've often, by your fireside, talked of people you have known,
The soldier, p'raps the doctor, or the priest;
These verses are of fellows, most of whom are never known,
On whom the limelight falls perhaps the least.
There's many who've forgotten, in the comfort of a home,
The boys whose lives are mingled with the wild;
Who leave the surging city, model out the great alone,
To hardness, for your pleasure, reconciled.
* * * * * * *
When, lying in your sleeper in a first-class Pullman car,
Or musing at the table while you dine,
The train is running swiftly on without a jolt or jar,
D'you ever think of those who made the line?
While rushing o'er the prairies, fresh with towns all newly born,
The bush, the bridge across the Torrent's fall;
And rounding mighty canyons in the hazy early morn,
Don't quite forget the boys who did it all.
We know you bought a ticket, and you pay for all you get,
But don't you see the shadow near the pine,
Who looks at you appealingly, with face so white and set,
For duty died, your comfort on the line.
Just turn your eyes to Westward, to the bluff that shades the creek,
The sunset's glory setting overhead;
We found him in the bushes, he'd been frozen near a week,
His life, a pioneer, the man that's dead.
There's some who die of hunger, and there's others rave in pain;
The fever and the scurvy claim their due.
And many go to early graves, who might have gone to fame.
Just think of us while in your family pew.