Number Twenty Two

Iron Road


Air:—”The Babies on our ‘Block.”

If you talk of locomotives, and would like to know the star,
Then step up here on the footplate for a trip to Waratah.
For I drive the finest engine—I can prove the statement true,
They have neither man or engine equals me and Twenty-two.

There’s the four-wheel coupled Fairbairns, Numbers One, and Two, and Three,
They’re as fleet as Flying Dutchmen, but they’re wake as any flea;
Built for speed and strength, and staming, and likewise for running true,
There’s a happy combination in old Number Twenty-two.

Look at Billy Martin when he’s running late,
A-ripping, and Or-whipping, Doctor is his mate;
Drive, Billy, drive, tut no matter what you do,
You couldn’t hold a candle to old Number Twenty-two.

There’s Four, Five, Six, and Seven, Number Eight and Number Nine,
They could all hook on behind me, and I’d tow them up the line;
Ten, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen—I can only name a few—
And I’ll gladly do without them if they’ll give me Twenty-two.

There ‘s the Thirties and the Forties, they are Beyer and Paycock ‘s make,
They are easy on the lever, and they’re handy with the brake,
With improvements and inventions, and with everything that’s new;
But the bully engine of them all is Number Twenty-two.

Chorus—What’s the use of Norman bothering his poll,
A-sighing, and a-crying, about his oil and coal;
– Drive, Freddy, drive, no matter what you do,
For economising fuel you can’t beat old Twenty-two.

There’s the bogies, Beyer and Paycock’s, and some more by Dubs supplied,
And the new Mogul goods engines, with their cylinders outside,
With their air brakes, and their stame brakes, but give me the good old screw,
I can pull up in a jiffy when I ‘m driving Twenty-two.

There’s Bill Gould, and Jack McNulty, and there’s Sam and Billy Brown,
Sure they blow about their Moonbies, and the gradients up and down,
There’s Mat Cockburn, Pearce, and Saxon, and the Murrurundi crew,
But they all play second fiddles when I’m there with Twenty-two.

Chorus—Take a trip with Wrightson, Number Thirty-eight,
Always on the knocker, not a moment late;
Drive, Geordie, drive, no matter what you, do,
The darling of the Northern Line is Number Twenty-two.

There’s Bill Nale, and Tom, his brother, Harry Wallace, and old Nat,
Mathews, Sanderson, and Blundell, Stewart, King, and Billy Pratt,
Oh, they skite about their sheep trains, and the work they have to do,
But I’d pull their loads and engines with old Number Twenty-two.

There’s Fred Bracey, Dug, and Dedman, Brudder Tom and Brudder Dick.
Sure they talk of Mickey Reynolds till they’d make a pig get sick;
Of expansion and combustion they can prate till all is blue,
But when they want rale science, they must come to Twenty-two.

Chorus:—Cabby runs to Maitland—little Seventeen—
A-dancing, and a-prancing, like a ballet queen,
Drive, Cabby, drive, but no matter what you do,
You know you couldn’t fut it with old Number Twenty-two.

There’s Jim Massey, and Jack Howden, Johnny Boyd and Harry Bell,
There’s the coal men, and the goodsmen—half their names I couldn’t tell;
But if you want a driver that is sure to pull you through.
Just ask for Thomas Plunkett, and old Number Twenty-two.

I can work the staff and ticket, and keep time with any train,
I can pull the best amongst them, and I tell you once again
You may search the Northern Railway, you may search it through, and through,
And the divil blast the engine equals Number Twenty-two.

Chorus—Look at Billy Martin-—Doctor looking sour—
A-ripping, and a-slipping, sixty miles an hour,
Drive, Billy, drive, but no matter what you do
You know its ” Faugh-a-ballagh” when I’m out with Twenty-two.

Murrurundi, 1880. JAVEY.