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Along Brunel’s iron road
Where engines once glowed
On the Great Western Railway;
Where rustics in The Load of Hay
Make their unkempt way to Rotherhithe
For the chance of work and a life
Of toil, behind the walls
Where Empire bids and calls.
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In the night time gloom and dark
Fire envelopes the Cutty Sark:
Hear the creaking winch and barnacled anchor
Slip beneath the glass towered global banker
Full nine fathoms deep
In the dry docklands of memory’s sleep.