> Tony Rose > Songs > The Fireman’s Growl

The Fireman’s Growl

[ Roud - ; anon.]

F.W. Skerrett printed The Fireman’s Growl in his book Rhymes of the Rail (Leeds: Goodall & Suddick, 1920), pp. 23-28.

Karl Dallas found The Fireman’s Growl in the Railway Gazette and printed it in his 1974 book One Hundred Songs of Toil.

Tony Rose sang The Fireman’s Growl in 1977 on the Broadside album Steam Ballads, with the sleeve noted referring to Dallas’ book.

Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne sang Fireman’s Growl in 2017 on his WildGoose album Outway Songster. He noted:

Another song associated with Tony Rose, I first heard this sung by Tony on the LP Steam Ballads (which also features Harry Broadman, Kempion and Jon Raven). The album notes credit Karl Dallas’ One Hundred Songs of Toil as the source for this song. According to One Hundred Songs of Toil, the song had its origins in a set of anonymous verses written around the early twentieth century and published in the Railway Gazette. I believe it was Karl Dallas who set these verse to the widespread tune Tramps and Hawkers. I’ve always thought that this has one of the finest last verses of any song and it always seems to put a grin on the faces of my audiences, so I’ve chosen to close the album with it.

Thie video shows Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne at The Bridge Folk Club in Newcastle on 15 October 2018:

Lyrics

The Fireman’s Growl in Rhymes of the Rail

It’s not all beer and skittles, this blooming job of mine,
And it’s not a bed of roses, isn’t firing on the Line.
You don’t get too much money, you get lots of slack instead,
And they teach you how to work at night to earn your daily bread.

Just fancy being knocked up in the middle of the night
With a noise enough to wake the dead, give the neighbourhood a fright;
You leave your bed with sad regret, prepare to catch your train,
Then a chap comes round to tell you you can go to sleep again.

And when you do get to the sheds, that’s when the fun begins,
For someone’s pinched your spanners and lamps and other things.
You know it’s not quite up to Rules, still you like to do the same,
So you take someone else’s and pretend you’ve played the game.

You often get an engine that is very shy for steam,
And it’s then you start to realise that life’s not quite a dream;
You get quite a “fed-up” feeling when the Driver tells you that
“We’re losing time”, and then you lose your temper and your hat.

Then he starts to be sarcastic, and you swear there’ll be a rup,
When he asks you, “Do you think you’ve put the coal on right side up?”
He suggests you get your Jimmy, then you give a silent groan,
As you suddenly remember that your Jimmy’s safe at home.

It’s lively in the tunnels when you slip, and then you stick,
And the air mixed with the language gets beautifully thick;
The smoke it nearly blinds you, and with sulphur you near choke,
You turn to get a drink and find your blooming bottle’s broke.

Of course, it’s not expected that we chaps want much to eat,
But now and then we get a chance, and it really is a treat;
When you’ve put your food upon the floor, it’s enough to raise your ire,
Your mate gets absent-minded like, and drops it in the fire.

And when the stick’s at danger, as sure as you’re alive
There is a Rule made by some fool, they call it fifty-five.
You’ve got to walk perhaps half-a-mile, through snow, or hail, or rain.
You sign a book, then sling your hook, and tramp it back again.

Well, you reach your destination, neither happy, blythe, nor gay,
With just strength enough to whistle “End of a Perfect Day”.
All your hopes are fairly stranded, when the Turner says “Book-off” –
Miles away from home you’re landed, neither money, ’bacca, scoff.

They send you to a Barracks built inside the Station Yard,
Where the engines sing your lullaby, and the beds are nice and hard;
Or, perhaps, it’s private diggings, they’re another lively hole,
For it’s ten-to-one the blooming fire’s gone out to find some coal.

You go to bed half famished, and pretend it’s for the best,
And say, “When the stomach’s empty the brain will get a rest.”
But it’s fairly aggravatin’—just about chills you to the bone,
When they knock you up to tell you you’ve to work the “Diner” home.

You start the homeward journey, and things reach a pretty pass;
When you’re half inclined to envy the cattle out at grass,
And you vow you’ll chuck you’re job up, you swear you’ll do no more.
Reach your home: “Come on in nine hours”, and the game starts as before.

It’s a shame they work the Drivers till of age they nearly drop;
Why can’t they have a pension, like a postman or a “slop”?
They earn it, they deserve it, and then contented they would be;
Besides ’twould mean promotion, and there’d be a chance for me.

I often wonder if I’ll ever get a Driver’s job.
For I’m sick and tired of firing sixty hours for thirty bob.
Perhaps I’ll fire until I die, and then to heaven I’ll go –
Or, perhaps, I will be firing still for the Old Lad down below.

Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne sings Fireman’s Growl

Oh, it’s not all beer and skittles in this blooming job of mine,
It’s not a bed of roses, isn’t firing on the Line.
You don’t get too much money, you get lots of slack instead
And they teach you how to work at night to earn your daily bread.

Well, just fancy being knocked up in the middle of the night
With a noise enough to wake the dead, give the neighbourhood a fright.
You leave your bed in sad regret, you’ll prepare to catch your train,
Then a chappie comes round to tell you, you can go to sleep again.

Well, it’s then you do get to the sheds, and that’s when the fun begins –
For someone’s pinched your spanners, your lamps and other things.
You know it’s not quite up to Rules, still you do the same,
So you take someone else’s and pretend you’ve played the game.

Well, it’s often you get an engine that is very shy for steam;
It’s then you start to realise that life’s not quite a dream.
You get a “fed-up” feeling when the Driver he tells you that
“We’re losing time”, it’s then that you lose your temper and your hat.

Well, it’s lively in the tunnels when you slip, and then you stick,
And the air mixed with the language it gets beautifully thick.
The smoke it nearly blinds you hight and with sulphur you nearly choke,
So you turn to get a drink but you find your blooming bottle’s broke.

Well, of course it’s not expected that we chaps want much to eat
But now and then we get a chance and it really is a treat.
When you’ve put your food upon the floor it’s enough for to raise your ire
When your mate he gets absent-minded like and he drops it in the fire.

So you reach your destination neither happy, blithe, nor gay,
With just enough strength to whistle The End of a Perfect Day.
Your hopes are fairly stranded when the the turner he says, “Book off.”
Then miles away from home you’re landed, neither money, ’baccy nor scoff.

And so they send you to the Barracks built inside of the Station Yard
Where the engines sing your lullaby, and the beds they are nice and hard.
Perhaps it’s private diggings, they’re another lively hole,
For it’s ten to one the blooming fire’s gone out to find some coal.

So you start your homeward journey, and things reach a pretty pass,
When you’re half-inclined to envy the cattle out at grass,
You vow you’ll chuck your job up, and you swear that you’ll do no more.
Reach your home: “Come on in nine hours”, the game starts as before.

It’s a shame they work the Drivers till of age they nearly drop,
Why can’t they have a pension, like a postman or a “slop”?
They earn it, they deserve it, and contented they would be.
Besides, ’twould mean promotion and there’d be a chance for me.

Well, it’s often that I wonder if I’ll get a Driver’s job
I’m sick and tired of firing sixty hours for thirty bob.
Perhaps I’ll fire until I die, then up to heaven I’ll go –
Or perhaps I’ll be firing still for the Old Lad down below.