The Ghost Drivers Of The Midnight Train

The Ghost Drivers Of The Midnight Train

The steam train ran down the tracks,
Fast and unaware,
That the ghosts of many drivers,
Were still lingering in the air,
Within the steam their faces rose,
Of the ones who loved that train,
The ones who drove it through the night,
Through wind and storm and rain.

They never wanted to leave it,
They were not trapped there,
They stayed because they loved their job,
And because they still did care,
About their beloved carriages,
That carried people every day,
To work or home or somewhere else,
To places far away.

And every morning just like before,
Those drivers would arise,
Although their earthly lives had gone,
Their spirits never died,
They’d put their ghostly uniforms on,
And make their way once more,
To the engine that they cherished,
Just as they had done before.

The old train never questioned,
Why the drivers still came back,
It simply gave a little sigh,
As it travelled down the track,
For somewhere deep inside its heart,
If engines have one too,
It knew the hands that guided it,
Were the hands it always knew.

And when the fog came rolling in,
So thick you couldn’t see,
The spirits stood beside the driver,
As quiet as could be,
They whispered through the steam,
Of dangers up ahead,
And guided him around the bends,
Although they all were dead.

One night a mighty storm arose,
The rain came lashing down,
The lightning split the heavens,
As the train approached a town,
A fallen tree lay on the track,
Where nobody could see,
But suddenly the brakes came on,
As though by mystery.

The living driver stood in shock,
His hands were nowhere near,
The brake that stopped the engine,
And saved the passengers from fear,
Then through the steam he saw a face,
An old man dressed in blue,
Who smiled and touched his driver’s cap,
As though he’d said, that’ll do.

And sometimes in the early hours,
When all the world was still,
The whistle blew without a hand,
As it climbed a lonely hill,
The passengers would never know,
Who kept them safe that night,
Or why the steam held shadowy faces,
In the pale moonlight.

There was a driver called old Thomas,
Who’d worked there all his life,
He’d loved that little railway,
Almost as much as his dear wife,
And when his earthly days were done,
He made himself a vow,
That death would never stop him,
From driving that train somehow.

And there were others just like Thomas,
Who’d never said goodbye,
Their souls still rode the railway,
Beneath the changing sky,
They laughed about the old days,
As the engine puffed along,
And sometimes through the whistle,
You could almost hear their song.

They knew each bridge and crossing,
Each tunnel dark and deep,
Each dangerous bend and hillside,
Where the shadows seemed to creep,
And though the years had taken them,
Their memories still remained,
For nothing could erase the love,
They had for that old train.

So down the track the train still goes,
The steam blows out each night,
The whistles blow, the spirits rise,
And everything feels right,
They guide the train through danger,
They guide it there and back,
Because those spirits know nothing else,
But living on the track.

And when the final journey comes,
And that old train must rest,
Perhaps those ghostly drivers,
Will make one last request,
To take their little engine,
Beyond the stars above,
For even death cannot destroy,
The things we truly love.

And somewhere in the heavens,
Where the silver moonbeams shine,
You’ll hear a distant whistle,
From a train beyond all time,
And see the faces in the steam,
Of drivers long since gone,
Still proudly driving their beloved train,
As the wheels go rolling on.