A Swansea Valley Man

This is my father´s record of a well-known poem. I hope it does not contain too many mistakes! I also hope that, by publishing it here, I do not infringe any copyright. I will remove it immediately if so – and apologise indvance. It represents a personal memory for me as a child as well as for my father.

THE BALLAD OF THE OLD MUMBLES TRAIN

 

By

Dan Morgan

 

THE STATION

 

When we wish to partake of excitement

That would fill us with joy – more or less,

We would save up our cash

And prepare for a dash

On the wonderful Mumbles express.

The station we start from is striking.

The roof is the sky overhead,

And flat on the ground

The ‘platform’ is found.

The oldest design – it is said.

The booking hall is round in a side street:

A shelter from sunshine and rain.

And all rushed pell-mell

At the sound of a bell

For then – was the time for our train.

THE TRAIN

 

Our train is a wonder of wonders.

The coaches are gorgeous and grand.

For the dainty design

Of the train on this line

Is easily the best in the land.

Some coaches are ‘first class’ – some ‘second’;

And ‘third class’ and ‘workmens’ as well.

Queer trucks at the rear

All open and bare;

And no class at all – I’ve heard tell.

The engine – My Word! What a beauty.

As slowly she snorts from her shed,

 Then crosses the road

To take up her load

And wait for the full steam ahead.

There are carriages nicknamed ‘The Toastrack’

With leg room for sitters – so slight

That to sit at one’s ease

We’ve to dovetail our knees

With the lady or gent opposite.

And that wondrous van for the workmen

If ever we found ourselves there

With the fumes and the smoke

We would jolly well choke

And be gurgling and gasping for breath.

THE START

 

The trainload is ready and eager for starting

And steam from the engine is hissing

And smoke from the funnel causes lot of eye smarting

There’s hardly a thing that is missing.

The guards in a row with shrill whistles blowing

The engine bell dismally tolling.

When all are impatient to see the train going

More passengers up, we see, strolling.

They are then got aboard with shouting and shoving

And cross words and swear words and grunting;

And just as we think to the Mumbles we’re moving

The engine must do yet more shunting.

We hear lots of creaking and bearings a’squeaking

And backwards and forwards we’re bumping;

With pistons a’clanking and whistles a‘shreeking

Soon, over the first crossing, we’re bumping.

And this is a picture that’s true, more or less

Of the starting away of the Mumbles express.

ON THE WAY

 

We’re off at last – a great adventure started.

A tolling bell tells all we’re on our way.

From sleepy Swansea town we’ll soon be parted

To reach – in time – The Mumbles, cross the bay.

We leave behind the advertising station

And rows of houses that flank our right.

The pass the grimy gasworks with elation

And soon our pretty (!) prison is in sight.

By school and yards and church we’re quickly flashing

And see the waiting people at the ‘slip’.

Then by the railway arch you see us dashing

But pull up for more shunting on this trip.

They hitch on more coaches from Trafalgar Siding

To lengthen (in short time) this great express.

Impatient are some passengers there riding;

We’ll reach the Mumbles in an hour or less.

AT THE ‘SLIP’

 

At the slip – what a sight

T’was a mystery quite

How the thousands of passengers vanished

From the road all around

On the train they were stored

By a magician’s wand they were banished.

No matter the number – the guards ne’r refrain

From finding them room on the old Mumbles train.

AT BRYNMILL

 

Once more – to the west

At a speed near its best

Brynmill Station our express approaches

Thousands more for this train

Which I’m sure must contain

Some invisible extending coaches.

For, if hundreds or thousands, the guards never complain

They’ll find them all room on the dear Mumbles train.

SPEEDING ALONG

 

Off, off again, on that long stretch of line

Where each express is proud to show her pace.

From Brynmill Lane to Gypsy’s Green is fine

Here cyclists oft the Mumbles train would race.

The speed we reached by some deemed a crime

Yet backbent cyclists by us sped,

And reached Blackpill before us many a time.

For that’s the way our racing men are bred.

A ‘L and N’ train we passed with sweet distain

We simple left it standing as they say.

(But here I think it’s best to say) explain

It was a train that ran the other way.

Of course we had to meet the uptown train

At Blackpill Links where all good golfers play.

Though every waiting goes again the grain

We saw two play four holes – t’was worth the stay.

Our train the golf house points we reach

Something’s gone wrong, as often times they will.

Folks are much shocked – and passengers, they screech

‘We’re off the line’ – but much too slow to spill.

With levers, spanners, chains and then a jack

The guards and driver work with eager zest.

With bump and jolt we soon regain the track

Then reach Blackpill – to take a little rest.

IN THE BAY

 

Halfway is reached, we’re in the Bay

The most superb is Britain’s isle.

At Lilliput we do not stay

But dash along the western mile.

The passengers – inside, on top

On stairs and platforms look aghast

And wonder when we’ll stop

For we are travelling mighty fast.

Our driver knows what he can do

And that the brakes will surely work

So, for a test, without ado

He pulls the train up with a jerk.

Folk’s heads are bumped, some are upset

Words, to express, they’re at a loss

No need to flurry, fume, or fret

The stationmaster cries ‘West Cross’.

ON WITH THE MAD FLIGHT

 

We soon are on the move again

The rollocking, rumbling Mumbles train;

And at the speed our engine runs

We pretty soon will reach the dunes.

That’s if our train with such a load

Can keep the rails at Norton Road.

She keeps the tracks though, speeding fast

And Oystermouth is reached at last.

Here crowds of passengers detrain

Some for their homes, lots for the bays.

To roam the sands beside the main

Where oft they spent such happy days.

And in the station yard you’ll find

Many a horse and trap waiting there.

Our old friend Percy waiting there

Lifts whip to hat – he seeks a fare.

The engine bell is heard once more

And on the move, swift, as of yore.

And leave behind dear Oystermouth

No station like it – north or south.

Upon our right a glimpse is seen

Of tennis courts and bowling green.

Hotels and shops along the bend

Leads to the sea of Southend.

THE END, AT LAST

 

Now patient passengers prepare

To leave the train in just a while.

The terminus is very near

We end our journey with a smile.

And those on top wipe out their eyes

To clear them of dust and grit

That from the engine’s funnel flies.

For years we’ve all endured it.

So we’ve had our share of excitement

On the wonderful Mumbles express.

Though we say it with smiles

It has covered six miles

In an hour or so – more or less.

And the pier station too is striking

For the roof is the sky overhead;

And the view all around

Is the finest e’er found

In the world – anywhere – so tis said.