Old One Hundred
The whistle blast, the hiss of air,
To one and all they do declare,
Old one hundred has left the station,
On shiny ribbons, once crossed the nation.
It proudly pulls number twenty five,
One of the few to still survive.
Designated four,six two,
Of wheels has it quite a few.
Its six foot drivers provide the power,
While on the country cinders shower.
Its stack emitting a plume of gray,
Old one hundred still has its day.
So renown this steed of iron
They really should build it a cairn.
But one hundred’s fate’s been cast,
Its vital need has long been past.
Will its fate be so unjust,
It must become a pile of rust.
Luckily there is no sorrow,
For starting immediately tomorrow,
Old one hundred will still pull a train,
Through sunlight, mist or even rain,
Filled with people who laugh and scream,
Happy to be pulled by steam.
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