The song that plays when trying to do a fast freight.

I've heard songs about war and famine less depressing than this, great song though

You missed a fad on your very

If you’ve ever fired a steam loco, this is spot on

"tng tng tng tng"Hits different

Considering they mentioned by the key Why do I suddenly imagine an S100 or E2 shunting at Southampton

78018 was a nice loco

This song goes so hard

Shame we lost the railway, but at least the locos from the longmoor military railway were saved for preservation.

Always one of my favourites, and instrumental it really proves how much music there actually is in don’s songs!

First. Plus nice song.

Lyrics: Well, the family all work at what they fancy, But father doesn't fancy work at all! Oh, we've got a little Railway out, not very far from town, The windows and the doors are painted green. When everyone gets down to work, things really do get done, For the folks at home, they number seventeen! Oh, the family all work at what they fancy, But father doesn't fancy work at all! Ah, me eldest Brother Sam, he makes loganberry jam, And Uncle Harry Sells it from his stall. Grandma's knitting sweaters for the Army, For the lads out in Crimea so she said, And while me sister carries coal, father comes home from the door, And wanders up the stairs and into bed! Oh, the family all work at what they fancy, But father doesn't fancy work at all! Oh, from Monday until Friday, When me Brother’s at the sheds, Me mother digs the garden until three; Then she put puts away the shovel, And lights up the kitchen fire, And goes to wake up father for his tea! Well, the family all work at what they fancy, But father doesn't fancy work at all! Even Grandpa you will see, keeps the sewers running free, And auntie Works behind a prison wall. But father never wonders from the fireside, He doesn't even answer when I call, So, to get a crust of bread, I just have to leave my bed, Oh, father doesn't fancy work at all!

Lyrics: Fifteen years and five - foot - one, Dressed in soot and coal. Cleaning engines for a year, Elbows deep in paraffin oil. Sixteen now and on the shed, Carrying fire and sand. Shifting clinker, raising steam, Cleaning up and filling his can. Twenty - two and a mainline man, His trial has come and gone. Fill the boiler, watch the gauge, Open the door and shovel it on. Thirty - four and now, He’s driving every other day. But times get worse and jobs go down, And back he goes on fireman’s pay. Forty - eight and getting stout, But the footplate’s all his own. His engine thunders through the night, Spills his tea and rattles his bones. Five - foot - nine, and sixty - one, Glasses on his nose. Can’t see too well so off he comes, To sweeping up and polishing floors. Sixty - five his time is done, He swapped his coal and oil. For a smart gold watch that bear’s his name, Then sixty - six and covered in soil.

Lyrics: One night at the church I was pinching the coal, Over the ground and under the ground. What did I see? Well, I'll tell you it all, Over and under the ground. A drunken old miner was walking alone, Over the ground and under the ground. And he nipped through the graveyard to get to his home, Over and under the ground. He was thinking of only the time he could save, Over the ground and under the ground. When he tumbled into an unoccupied grave, Over and under the ground. He picked himself up and scrambled about, Over the ground and under the ground. But try as he might he just couldn't get out, Over and under the ground. Not being the kind who would whimper and weep, Over the ground and under the ground. He sat in the corner and went off to sleep, Over and under the ground. The miner was sleeping not caring at all, Over the ground and under the ground. When Ivor the driver nipped over the wall, Over and under the ground. The night it was dark and Ivor was full, Over the ground and under the ground. And he tripped and he fell in that very same hole, Over and under the ground. He spat and he screamed and he cursed and he swore, Over the ground and under the ground. And he wakened the miner asleep on the floor, Over and under the ground. Poor Ivor sure there was no one about, Over the ground and under the ground. When a voice from dark “you’ll never get out” Over and under the ground. Now the grave it was long and exceedingly deep, Over the ground and under the ground. But Ivor the driver was out in one leap, Over and under the ground. The miner remembers his night with the dead, Over the ground and under the ground. But Ivor the driver is strapped in his bed, Over and under the ground.

Lyrics: Oh, a railwayman is a cheerful soul, He whistles and sings as the wagons roll; But still, he goes home with his pockets full of coal, Cause the money doesn't go very far! He goes to work at the break of dawn, And the clothes on his back are ragged and torn; He sold his cap and his uniform, Cause the money doesn't go very far! All the mess hall lights are burning bright, for the track players bragging in the long dark Night; It's the foreman's deal and the game is tied, Cause the money doesn't go very far! Oh well he signs on duty at half past nine, Spends eight long hours on the endless line; You can reckon that he's counting on some over time, Cause the money doesn't go very! Oh well some go fast, and some just crawl, And some don't ever move at all: But but it's agreed by one and all, That the money doesn't go very far! Oh, a railwayman is a cheerful soul, He whistles and sing as the wagons roll; But still, he goes on with his pockets full of coal, Cause the money doesn't go very far!

Lyrics: I'd like to be a lengthman along the Iron Way, Living among the fish plates the sleepers and the keys! With me forty pounds of ammer, With me accent and me grammar, A little bit on the foot plate I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line. I'd like to be a lengthman, of a section of me own, I'd keep it in good order, the best that I can do! And if they want the station shifting, Or the track should need a lifting, On a Sunday afternoon I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line. I'd like to be a lengthman when Winter's on the line, I'd volunteer for duty whatever the time of day! And all that I desire, Is a kettle on the fire, For a couple of cans of tea, I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line. I'd like to be a lengthman working with the gang, In a wagon load of ballast, I’d be pleased to do me share! And if me Wellingtons I'm wearing, With me clothes that needs repairing, And they kept us after time I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line. I'd like to be a lengthman the Sentry of the line, I'd even join the union to show what I could do! But they'd always find me willing, For to earn another Shilling, When the rest of all gone home, I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line. I'd like to be a lengthman all on the iron way, For company and country, I'd labour every day! And they could always take a notion, For to try me with promotion, For to wear the foreman’s suit I wouldn't mind, So long as I keep attending to the line.

Lyrics: We like the narrow gauge, we're like our railway in miniature! It's narrow gauge, and narrow field, of little lines! Our engines aren't Britannia’s that's, not our style, But dress them up in panniers and watch out for the smile! We like the narrow gauge, we ride the not so straight and narrow track, Till a tunnel toward Paradise appears, Which is narrow every time, our escape to little lines, We’re narrow eyed, narrow-minded volunteers. We like the Narrow Gauge; we search the world for little engines, It's a narrow age, that can't count for one or two, We often find them looking forgotten and cold, Or stoically working away from the fold, We like the narrow gauge, we ride the not so straight and narrow track, Till a tunnel toward Paradise appears, Which is narrow every time, our escape to little lines, We’re narrow eyed, narrow-minded volunteers.

Lyrics: The pin-stripe boys have had their say, A line must go if it doesn’t pay. But I’m too old to move away, I’m in the sidings now. I’ve worked this line for many a day, I can name any driver a mile away, But that’s no use when your hair turns grey. I’m in the sidings now. Well, now I know how a wagon feels When the grass comes creeping round its wheels. And its timbers turn to a woodworm’s meals, I’m in the sidings now. So I’ll give my whistle one more blow, Then I’ll change my pole for a garden hoe, My bogie fires are burning low, I’m in the sidings now. Good business men have often said, Always trim your costs if you’re in the red, Well, come shake hands with an overhead, I’m in the sidings now. If your money tree will bear no fruit, Never blame the man who tends the root. But take your knife to the tender shoot, I’m in the sidings now.

Lyrics: I can close my eyes sometimes, and still smell the smoke, As the final porter slams the doors. There's a glance at the clock, and a nod to the guard, and the train is in motion once more Down the Rosendale Valley, on a sultry warm day, The clanking of Wheels echoes on, But it's all in my mind, when I wake up I find, That the last train from Burgess has gone. I can stand in the car park remembering old tales, Of a station that's long since pulled down, Of fly shunted wagons that ran off the rails, ending up in the centre of town. Now the juggernaut carry what's left of the trade, With the cotton Bales piled high upon, And where I worked with me mates is now housing estate, And the last train from Brighton has gone. And at 3 in the morning when I used to sign on, I lie awake half in a dream, I'm a guard on a special that's bound for the coast With a 4 - 6 - 0 getting up steam. We've got packages for printers and pigeons to release, Spare seats after hay would not one, But now they jump on a plane for a fortnight in Spain, the last train to Flatwood has gone. And at measurement's halt the track has been lifted, The platform is all overgrown, There's a willow and scrub where the cart donkeys ran, And the valley has claimed back its own. In the Saddleworth Hills on a crisp Autumn day, A plume of smoke still lingers on, But I'm dreaming out loud sure it's only a cloud, The Last Train for do King’s Cross has gone. Down the Rosendale Valley on a sultry warm day, The clanking of wheels echo goes on, But it's all in my mind, when I wake up I find, but the last train from Burgess has gone.

Lyrics: The Settle Carlisle railway was built into the land, More viaducts and tunnels than the lines upon your hand. She cuts across the Pennines of a water rocketeer, 70 miles of monument to the men who put her there. Well, I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening. You can feel the ghosts of engineers who first surveyed the line, Who conjure up a Jubilee or lumbering number 9. Or maybe find the water troughs on a Garsdale afternoon, And listen to them filling when the Waverly is gone. But I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening. Cascades of falling Waterdown, the sides of Pen-y-ghent, And at the foot of Ingleborough, a solitary tent. The bridges over Arten Gill and Hetton Bet-y-moss, And silhouettes of steamers as they fade into the past. But I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening. When snow is blown around the fells, and cuttings disappear, Tunnels fill with icicles; the line is never clear. But weather is a fickle thing, and snow will turn to rain, And the landslides all too easily, the digging starts again. But I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening. When engine-spotters gather here, on summer Saturdays, Jostling with the travellers, who go their different ways. The polished brass and uniforms of Settle's age of gold, But memories of better times are difficult to hold. But I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening. Well an engine's on the turntable, the crew are climbing down, Dreams become reality as they start to turn around. As the men turn into shadows, and the cinders into grass, And the engine's still revolving as it fades into the past. But I'd like to sit a while, By the Settle and Carlisle, And delve among the memories at evening.

Lyrics: Have you noticed how relations, Within the working population, Exercise a Fascination, For observers of the situation? Here for your appreciation, Examples from a railway station. Consider George, the humble porter: He loved the station Master's daughter. Once with someone else he caught her, Vowed he'd slice them into quarters, But had no stomach for the slaughter, He vandalized the book he bought her Observe the brush and busty Brenda: The lady season ticket vendor, Paragon of female gender, Course remarks could not offend her. Traveling man could but surrender, To the girl’s unbridled splendour. Departed now has hateful Hector, The weaselly ticket stub collector, Tried each journey to reject, Your ticket home for some defect, Or minor flaw, this Devil's Rector, Became an income tax inspector. And see the stately St. Helena, the Hebridean station cleaner, Like some gallic speaking Queen, Her stare allowed no misdemeanour She carried off to Gretna Green, A randy cook from Argentina. Gordon Grief the station master, Listened to his ghetto blaster, Walked as if encased in plaster, Found each day some new disaster, To drive the pulse a little faster. He died a drunkard in Doncaster. So, the staff of one small station, Committed to obliteration, When it elected masters of the nation, Decide on nationalization. They pensioned off a generation, replace them all with automation.

short wide shovl me cheese and bread

Keep posting these instrumentals! They are much appreciated

NO WAY A SNOWDON ENIGNE????????

I’m sure you already have it, but let me know if you need a copy of The Golden Age Of Steam. I managed to snag that one upload before it got taken down.

i seriously love the lyrics "the Drummond steaming the fireman workin' like a demon" its goes so hard

I'll be singing this on my death bed

This song plays in my head whenever im late for school

You can't park that there, mate!

Smoke in my eyes, soot in my hair, cinders in my shoes, I'm watching the needle falling away and singing the eight freight blues. Well, we're running late in a sorry state on eighty-two-fifteen She's overdue for boiler work and I can't get her to steam. With a thousand tons of coal behind and a tender full of slag Me mates sent me to Coventry and they just won't answer back Across the cab the driver sits and he's staring straight ahead He's not spoken to me for eighteen months since I started out of the shed He's drawn a line across the cab for each of us to stand Since he found I'd joined the NUR(1) while he was a ASLEF(2) man I filed her thin and piled it in but still she would not go When the water dropped I forced a stop on the mainline for a blow I smashed the clinker, cleaned the fire, tried every trick I know With a rake and dart, but that old fart blames me for all our woes With a one and sixty climb ahead and the water out of sight We'll have to stop and blow her up for the second time tonight The load comes on the engine and the starter's showing green. I'm looking for the banker but no banker's to be seen The driver comes from Motherwell, his face I can't abide He only knows full forward gear with the regulator wide I can't touch his injector, and mine is short of breath I wish his balls would turn to bulldogs and bite the sod to death

Me doing a fast freight on an 8f

God I would fucking kill to live a life like this, although I still could never part with safety and unions of the modern age, moving with the digging jobs, with nothing but my gear and strong arms, probably living in tents and hotels through the countryside would be so wonderful.

Lovely image of the late Paul McDonald ex Bournemouth 71B. Smashing chap to work with & for in my days at the ol Swanage Railway.

what is the story based of

Green All The Way - Dave Goulder. Theme song for the Flying Scotsman.

I'd Like to be Lengthman.

Lyrics: Oh, when you're tumbling outta ya bed, you don't know if your dead or alive And you make your way through the wakening day 'til your climbing aboard a black five Well, you're leavin' the station behind, and your shovellin' mile after mile And the kids all wave at the master and slave and the passengers riding in style Well, you're up and you're groping for coal, for the fire has blinded your eye Fill the boiler's need and fire's greed as you blacken the sun and the sky She goes hammering over the hill, and your bloody near roastin' alive But like a hound of steel riding runaway wheels there's a devil astride a black five

Lyrics: We stood at Pinxton station, one dismal Saturday, with an air of glooming over platform 1 The folk all dressed in morning black had come from near and far to see the Pinxton flyers' final run There's a scrap and colliery and pubs of great renown, and the smell of burning slag(?) fills the air But you'll never get to see them on the rusty Pixton for the LMR don't have the trains to spare They filled the booking office, the most they'd seen for years, buying souvenir tickets by the score Enthusiastic passengers took pictures of the guard whose autograph was sought by many more There's a scrap and colliery and pubs of great renown, and the smell of burning slag(?) fills the air But you'll never get to see them on the rusty Pixton for the LMR don't have the trains to spare Oh, a solemn ritual was held upon the platform side, though time it had long passed departure time But finally did a train pull out with whistle open wide and detonators bangin' on the line There's a scrap and colliery and pubs of great renown, and the smell of burning slag(?) fills the air But you'll never get to see them on the rusty Pixton for the LMR don't have the trains to spare And every single station from there to Nottingham was treated to a ceremony grand The communication cord was pulled a dozen times or more for the gentlemen to shake the porter's hand There's a scrap and colliery and pubs of great renown, and the smell of burning slag(?) fills the air But you'll never get to see them on the rusty Pixton for the LMR don't have the trains to spare **Kickass piano solo** And at last, the terminus was reached and everyone got out, the refreshment bar their final port of call And the gentlemen in black top hats, they drank a solemn toast, for the poor old Pinxton railway was no more There's a scrap and colliery and pubs of great renown, and the smell of burning slag(?) fills the air But you'll never get to see them on the rusty Pixton for the LMR don't have the trains to spare Half from memory heh.

Lyrics: I started as a cleaner back in 1939 I planned to spend me whole life just workin' up and down the line Devoted to the company 'til the driver's seat was mine I never knew that it would be me downfall I was workin' on the nightshift with nothin' much to do So, I sloped off out of the foreman's sight well really wouldn't And I came across a number four just waitin' for the crew And I clambered on the footplate like a driver I'm the man who put the engine in the chip shop Wherever I go me legend follows me And as I watch the trains go by and lean upon me brush I know I' made me mark on history Well, she hadn't got much steam up, so I filled her up with coal Release the brake, and opened the reg to make 'er role But she wouldn't budge an inch and when I heard the foreman call I left 'er where she was and ran for cover Well, the sun was just appearin' when the foreman went his rounds He was back inside a minute with a troubled sorta frown He said, "I've lost a number four have you seen one around" And I nearly filled me trousers when he asked me I'm the man who put the engine in the chip shop Wherever I go me legend follows me And as I watch the trains go by and lean upon me brush I know I' made me mark on history Well, me stoking was impeccable, the steam had risen fast With the regulator open she began to move at last And a guard fell off his bicycle when he saw her rollin' past For he couldn't see a fireman or a driver Well, she took off down the main line goin' faster by the yard But the signalman responded to a phone call from the guard Put the signals all at danger, then he cursed himself so hard There was no one on the footplate who could see them I'm the man who put the engine in the chip shop Wherever I go me legend follows me And as I watch the trains go by and lean upon me brush I know I' made me mark on history She continued on her journey through the morning countryside Collecting sets of crossing gates, she carried them with pride 'til at last they set the points to get the runaway inside And she headed for the buffers at the station Now the buffers never stood a chance, she wore them like a crown A wooden fence, foot bridge, and telegraph pole went down And then she took to the highway, and went on towards the town But she couldn't get herself to pass the chip shop I'm the man who put the engine in the chip shop Wherever I go me legend follows me And as I watch the trains go by and lean upon me brush I know I' made me mark on history Well, she entered through the side door and put herself to rest They made her safe, and then went on to find the guilt pest And it wasn't long before they tracked me down and I confessed to bein' the man that put the engine in the chip shop I'm the man who put the engine in the chip shop Wherever I go me legend follows me And as I watch the trains go by and lean upon me brush I know I' made me mark on history Done half by memory heh

Lyrics: Now Ernie was a railway man and he rattled his way across the land and he told me, yes, he told me every day I ought to be doin' the same He rode a bike and carried a can and he called himself a lucky man he never let the thought of changing times to cloud or trouble his brain And what did he do when they told him he was through his railway was way behind the times what could he do it was the only life he knew he called himself the dinosaur the railway left behind Every engine at the shed, he worked 'em all alive and dead and he knew them, yes, he knew the, everyone gotta good tale to tell this one was sod for coal, and that one fell in the table hole and that one hit the chip shop down the road and battered it all to hell And what did he do when they told him he was through his railway was way behind the times what could he do it was the only life he knew he called himself the dinosaur the railway left behind He stopped for steam in Nottingham and he dropped a plug in Birmingham one day his engine left the track and took a shortcut through the yard he ran away a score a times and once he left his train behind for he snatched the coupling, hit the brake, and make a plaything of the guard And what did he do when they told him he was through his railway was way behind the times what could he do it was the only life he knew he called himself the dinosaur the railway left behind Well, his mates they were a special breed, but most have them have gone to seed for they couldn't find a part for them to play inside the master plan some when into industry while some just whiled the time away but he discovered steam in quiet country corners of the land And what did he do when they told him he was through his railway was way behind the times what could he do it was the only life he knew he called himself the dinosaur the railway left behind Yes, dinosaurs are gathering, he'll have a thwaite (?) in Pickering by Watercress and Lavender and Bluebell he can ride the line Now Ernie is a railway man and he's glad to use his skills again content to be among the dinosaur the railway left behind And what did he do when they told him he was through his railway was way behind the times what could he do it was the only life he knew he called himself the dinosaur the railway left behind Did that one by memory heh

As a switchman up near the Arctic circle, winter is the worst time to work anywhere on the railway. Wagons get wheelflats and their brakes refuse to work. Nothing rolls like it does in summer. Brakepads freeze to the wheels if the brakes are applied too long. It's not a fun time waiting for a train to charge in -20C, if it even does. Being a switchman isn't great. Especially in winter, but in the yard there are lights and warm offices. We drive diesel locomotives and they run hot, but I've heard winter horror stories from the drivers. The power is cut on the line so the locomotive is dead. It's -40C outside. Nearest town is 20km away and the sun went down two hours ago. That's when you're helpless.

Great music

we gettin' outta the colliery yard with this one

The picture is of a Yugoslav Railways class 05, the 4-6-2 version of the standardised series of locomotves of classes 05, 06 (2-8-2) and 30 (2-10-0)

She could push, a big mystery how she could pull, no doubt she would break her couplings.

Picture's of a Yugoslav railways class 38 - a UNNRA-supplied Liberation class 2-8-0. For anyone wondering.

I discovered steam and it's the only life I know.

Lyrics: Oh, when it's 3 o'clock in the morning And the moon shines through the park The railway men are going to work and the dogs creep home in the dark With me long Narrow Shovel Me bread and cheese and a little white can for me tea When I'm too old for a firman's work It's a driver I shall be Oh when me boots go crunch on the gravel And the black smoke fills the air A whisper steam from the cylinder tap Of me engine waiting there With me long Narrow Shovel Me bread and cheese and a little white can for me tea When I'm too old for a firman's work It's a driver I shall be Oh we fill up the tank with water And the tender stack with coal I pick up the shovel in me frozen hands And I fill up the firey hole Where me long Narrow Shovel Me bread and cheese A little white can for me tea When I'm too old for a fireman's work It's a driver I shall be Oh we roll on down to the cabin And the guard is waiting there And we pick up the train From the shunting yard And we're off to God knows where With me long Narrow Shovel Me bread and cheese and a little white can for me tea When I'm too old for a firman's work It's a driver I shall be And when the fire lights up the foot plate And the night is sharp abd clear If a man doesn't close all the loco sheds I'll be here in 40 years With me long Narrow Shovel Me bread and cheese and a little white can for me tea When I'm too old for a firman's work It's a driver I shall be