A poem called The Clattering Train, cited by Winston Churchill in the leadup to WW2, was mentioned In this week’s podcast at Chronicles of the End Times (check it out at the link below 1). I hadn’t heard of this poem before and did some research to find out more.
It turns out that Churchill quoted it from a boyhood memory after it appeared in a London publication called PUNCH in October 1890. With remarkable recall, he recounted several stanzas of the ominous poem, including them in his memoir, The Gathering Storm.
Churchill used the poem to illustrate the world’s state of mind in the 1930s, when leaders and the public remained sound asleep to the sinister threats that were gathering.
It doesn’t take much imagination to compare those times with the situation we see in the world today. As a Church, and as individual followers of Christ, we’re given the charge to be vigilant. It’s our job to shine as lights in a world that grows darker by the day.
“Knowing the season, that already it is time for you to awake out of sleep: for now is salvation nearer to us than when we first believed.” ~ Romans 13:11
May God give us the grace, strength, and courage to shine. Souls are depending on us.
"DEATH AND HIS BROTHER SLEEP"
Who is in charge of the clattering train?
The axles creak, and the couplings strain.
Ten minutes behind at the Junction. Yes!
And we’re twenty now to the bad—no less!
At every mile we a minute must gain!
Who is in charge of the clattering train?
Why, flesh and blood, as a matter of course!
You may talk of iron, and prate of force;
But, after all, and do what you can….
Man is in charge of the thundering train!
Man, in the shape of a modest chap
In fustian trousers and greasy cap;
A trifle stolid, and something gruff,
Yet, though unpolished, of sturdy stuff….
Only a Man, but away at his back,
In a dozen cars, on the steely track,
A hundred passengers place their trust
In this fellow of fustian, grease, and dust….
The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark.
Lull them to confident drowsiness. Hark!
What is that sound? ‘Tis the stertorous breath
Of a slumbering man—and it smacks of death!
Full sixteen hours of continuous toil
Midst the fume of sulphur, the reek of oil,
Have told their tale on the man’s tired brain,
And Death is in charge of the clattering train!
Those poppy-fingers his head incline
Lower, lower, in slumber’s trance;
The shadows fleet, and the gas-gleams dance
Faster, faster in mazy flight,
As the engine flashes across the night.
Mortal muscle and human nerve
Cheap to purchase, and stout to serve.
Strained too fiercely will faint and swerve.
Over-weighted, and underpaid,
This human tool of exploiting Trade,
Though tougher than leather, tenser than steel.
Fails at last, for his senses reel,
His nerves collapse, and, with sleep-sealed eyes,
Prone and helpless a log he lies!
A hundred hearts beat placidly on,
Unwitting they that their warder’s gone;
A hundred lips are babbling blithe,
Some seconds hence they in pain may writhe.
For the pace is hot, and the points are near,
And Sleep hath deadened the driver’s ear;
And signals flash through the night in vain.
Death is in charge of the clattering train!
References
Read the original version as published in PUNCH, Or the London Charivari*, on October 4, 1890.
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, October 4, 1890 (see pg 162)
*Charivari -- a noisy mock serenade (made by banging pans and kettles) to a newly married couple.
It calls to mind a similar poem, The Hellbound Train (author unknown):
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