OW then, take your seats! for Glasgow

and the North;

Chester!—Carlisle!—Holyhead,

and the wild Frith of Forth.

Clap on the steam, and sharp's

the word

"You men in scarlet cloth:—

"Are there any more passengers,

For the Night.. Mail.. to the North!"

Are there any more passengers?

Yes three-but they can't get in,

Too late, too late!-How they bellow and knock,

They might as well try to soften a rock

As the heart of that fellow in green.

For the Night Mail North? what Ho—

(No use to struggle, you can't get thro')

My young and lusty one—

Whither away from the gorgeous town?—

"For the lake and the stream and the heather brown,

"And the double-barrell'd gun!"

For the Night Mail North, I say?—

You with the eager eyes—

You with the haggard face and pale?—

'From a ruin'd hearth and a starving brood,

"A crime and a felon's gaol!"

For the Night Mail North, old man?—

Old statue of despair—

Why tug and strain at the iron gate?

"My daughter!!" Ha! too late, too late,

She is gone, you may safely swear;

She has given you the slip, d'you hear?

She has left you alone in your wrath,—

And she's off and away, with a glorious start,

To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart,

By the Night Mail North!

Wh———ish R———ush

Wh——-ish r———ush.——-

"What's all that hullabaloo?

"Keep fast the gates there-who is this

"That insists on bursting thro'?"

A desp'rate man whom none may withstand,

For look, there is something clench'd in his hand—-

Tho' the bearer is ready to drop—-

He waves it wildly to and fro,

And hark! how the crowd are shouting below—-

"Back!"—-

And back the opposing barriers go,

"A reprieve for the Cannongate murderer Ho!

"In the Queen's name—-

"STOP.

"Another has confessed the crime."

Whish—rush—whish—rush—-

The Guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet,

Now forward and northward! fierce and fleet,

Thro' the mist and the dark and the driving sleet,

As if life and death were in it;

'Tis a splendid race! a race against Time,—-

And a thousand to one we win it.

Look at those flitting ghosts—-

The white-arm'd finger posts—-

If we're moving the eighth of an inch, I say,

We're going a mile a minute!

A mile a minute—for life or death—-

Away, away! though it catches one's breath,

The man shall not die in his wrath:

The quivering carriages rock and reel—-

Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding steel!

The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel!—

Are there any more pasengers

For the Night.. Mail.. to the North?