Classic Poem

In the grim dead end he lies, with passionless filmy eyes,
English Ned, with a hole in his head,
Staring up at the skies.

The engine driver swore as often he swore before —
" I whistled him back from the flamin' track,
An' I could n't do no more. "

The gaffer spoke through the 'phone " Platelayer Seventy-one
Got killed to-day on the six-foot way,
By a goods on the city run.

" English Ned was his name,
No one knows whence he came,
He did n't take mind of the road behind
And none of us is to blame. "

They turned the slag in the bed
To cover the clotted red,
Washed the joints and the crimsoned points,
And buried poor English Ned.

In the drear dead end he lies ,
With the earth across his eyes,
And a stone to say,
How he passed away
To a shift beyond the skies.