A railway station, when I was a boy, Was a wonderful place to me, And being an engine driver Was all that I wanted to be. Looking inside at the footplate Was a glorious sight to see. The smell of the coal, the smoke and the steam Was the perfume of ecstasy. It was all of the power and romance Of railways and what they entail: Steam locomotives and tenders. The wheels clattering over the rails. The heat and glare from the firebox. The shrill of the steam whistle’s wail. That gave me my dream, I wanted to be The driver aboard the Night Mail. Now all of the stations are smoke free, And the locos taking the strain Are diesel powered or electric But the memory of steam remains. Tho’ thoughts of a railway journey Still quicken the pulse in my veins Railway travel is not as entrancing As it was with those old steam trains.