The Fireman checks the firebox,
Its coals all burning bright.
The Driver checks the steam gauge,
Its pressure is almost right.

The guard he checks his pocket watch,
In the rapidly fading light,
With whistle in mouth he’s waiting,
To send them into the night.

The Station Master is angry,
It’s running late again,
Waiting for the mail van,
That’s holding up the train.

On the platform a woman is weeping,
As her man he takes his seat.
In the carriage a child is wailing,
Asking for something to eat.

Passengers now are all seated,
Doors are all slammed tight,
As the shrillness of the whistle,
Slices deeply into the night.

With clattering and clanking,
And much hissing of steam,
The pistons start their pushing,
Working as a team.

The wheels they start off turning,
Carriages shudder and shake,
The fireman wields his shovel,
Even though his back does ache.

With regulator being pushed open,
The wheels they spin on the rail,
Then all at once they grip the steel;
Never been known to fail.

Inching away from the station,
The viaduct awaits the train,
Sturdily built of brick and stone,
Ready to take all the strain.

The wheels are turning quickly,
Picking up speed as they go,
Passing by the crossing gates,
See how the fire does glow.

Speed is now increasing,
Wheels are turning fast,
On County Bridge the children,
Wave as the train hurries past.

Then off into the countryside,
Enveloped by the night,
The Last Steam Train to Dublin,
Quickly vanishes out of sight.