Mountains of iron grow; mountains of iron grow
To dwarf the rusty streets which lie below.
The heart that once was oak is dead
And buried by the iron plates
That cross the ribs of steel.
Servant and trusting slave; servant and trusting slave –
'Tis here the steed is tamed to ride the waves
By sea-strong sinew, numb and dead,
Cremated by the burning torch
And welded into steel.
Links of the rusty chain; links of the rusty chain
Can hold the hearts of oak and live again;
Can hold the mountain hard and fast
To those themselves who must be held
Within the grip of steel.