Eric Langford
The Thackley Thunderbolt
(The Privet Railway)
Here comes The Thackley Thunderbolt
Delivering one man's dream,
Driven by the whispering wind,
And not industrial steam.
There are bird's nests in the boiler
There are squirrels on the plate,
And instead of coal and fiery ash
Mr Mole lives in the grate.
Nobody rides the Thunderbolt
The fireman never is seen,
And there's no need to search for danger at red
As the signals are always on green.
At dawn we hear the whistle blown
By a Blackbird on the stack,
And the sweetest sound of a Robin's song
In place of the clickety clack.
The Thunderbolt rests in the sidings
Of a garden so obscure,
That the train spotter's eye never alights
On the engine at number 4.
Page(s) 32
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