Anonymous
A headlight flashes through the night,
A shower of sparks shoots high;
A swish, a roar, a streak of light,
And then the train is by.
While faint and fainter comes the wail
Of whistle from the Midnight Mail.
Night after night, year after year,
In starlight, snow or rain,
I lay awake until I hear
The passing of this train.
And never have I known to fail
The whistle of the Midnight Mail.
I’ve journeyed far through foreign land;
On trains renowned for charm,
But none to me seemed quite so grand
As this one through our farm;
For every night I missed the tale
Of whistle from our Midnight Mail.
And so, content to live am I
Beside the right-of-way,
With one fond wish—that when I die
I want my bones to lay
Right here beneath the friendly hail
Of whistle from the Midnight Mail.