A Song Of A Liner Poem by John Joy Bell

Glad folk and sad folk, rich folk and poor,
Folk that doubt if they'll come back and folk that whisper 'sure!'
Leaving home or going home - they're all the same to me -
My business is with any folk that have to cross the sea.

Call me grand, a noble work of man's consummate skill,
Call me handsome, marvellous - oh call me what you will!
Lo! I spend each mighty throb and give each little thrill
To make an end to everything but business.

Tugs attend me down the river - - - - How it wearies me!
Till I'm lying loose off Greenock, ready to go free,
Ready with my 'scape pipe roaring keen to put to sea
And make an end to everything but business.

Strength is but a sorry thing except it knows a test,
All my pride of speed rebels against the thought of rest.
Strength and speed were given me the wind and rain to breast
And make an end to everything but business.

Hope for health upon my decks, or seek for pleasure there,
Find delights in days and nights, or struggle with despair,
Live or die, or sing, or sigh - - - - But ask me not to care -
For I'm cold to everything but business.

Now the tender's sheering off and gasping her good-bye.
Thrice her siren puffs a cloud and thrice a piteous cry.
Now I clear my husky horn and boom a big reply -
And that's an end to everything but business.

Glad folk and sad folk, rich folk and poor,
Folk that doubt if they'll come back and folk that whisper 'sure!'
Leaving home or going home - they're all the same to me -
My business is with any folk that have to cross the sea.