by Berton Braley
Wherever new bridges are flinging
Their spider-web skein to the skies;
Where the steel ships are made for the business of trade;
Where the skyscrapers gauntly arise;
Where the cranes lift the twenty-ton girders
And the red rivets hiss through the air–
From Chile to Nome and from China to Rome,
The steel-worker’s sure to be there.
This week you will find him on Teesside
Some forty floors upward or so,
Where the men seem to crawl on just nothing at all
When you watch from the pavement below.
Next week he’ll be starting in Sydney,
This viewer of cities and men,
With his money all spent he is fully content
So long as he’s moving again.
His passport’s the card of his union
Wherever he happens to land,
His home is the spot where a job’s to be got,
For the skill of his head and his hand;
No task is too distant to tackle,
No chance to outlandish or dim;
He carelessly goes like the wind as she blows,
And the world has no terrors for him.