The Old Engine Poem by Bob Gibson

In the bush near an old gold mine
Old pick axes and a railway line
The workings were sieved down by the steam
Where specs of gold once did gleam

Many years have past since then
When the bush sang with working men
Old iron wheels red with rust
A three legged stool turning to dust

There in the corner of my eyes
Something takes me by surprise
an old engine once painted green
With brass nameplate clearly seen

The flywheel moves but just a tad
That means the innards are not to bad
To get it home will be a task
A favor my friends I have to ask

Tied to poles four men it took
We managed with a lot of luck
Stripped and chipped and piston cleaned
Oiled, and painted now she gleamed

Swinging the handle, a puff of smoke
She chugs away with a touch of choke
Its been fifty years since it last run
Preserving the past can be so much fun