On Patrol Part 7

"OUR ANNUAL."

Up the well-remembered fairway, past the buoys and forts we drifted-- Saw the houses, roads, and churches as they were a year ago.

Far astern were wars and battles, all the dreary clouds were lifted, As we turned the Elbow Ledges--felt the engines ease to "Slow."

Rusty side and dingy paintwork, stripped for war and cleared for battle-- Saw the harbour-tugs around us--smelt the English fields again,-- English fields and English hedges--sheep and horses, English cattle, Like a screen unrolled before us, through the mist of English rain.

Slowly through the basin entrance--twenty thousand tons a-crawling With a thousand men aboard her, all a-weary of the War-- Warped her round and laid alongside with the cobble-stones a-calling-- "There's a special train awaiting, just for you to come ash.o.r.e."

Out again as fell the evening, down the harbour in the gloaming With the sailors on the fo'c'sle looking wistfully a-lee-- Just another year of waiting--just another year of roaming For the Majesty of England--for the Freedom of the Sea.

MASCOTS

MASCOTS.

When the galleys of Phoenicia, through the gates of Hercules, Steered South and West along the coast to seek the Tropic Seas, When they rounded Cape Agulhas, putting out from Table Bay, They started trading North again, as steamers do to-day.

They dealt in gold and ivory and ostrich feathers too, With a little private trading by the officers and crew, Till rounding Guardafui, steering up for Aden town, The tall Phoenician Captain called the First Lieutenant down.

"By all the Tyrian purple robes that you will never wear, By the Temples of Zimbabwe, by King Solomon I swear, The s.h.i.+p is like a stable, like a Carthaginian sty.

I am Captain here--confound you!--or I'll know the reason why.

Every sailor in the galley has a monkey or a goat; There are parrots in the eyes of her and serpents in the boat.

By the roaring fire of Baal, I'll not have it any more: Heave them over by the sunset, or I'll hang you at the fore!"

"What is that, sir? _Not_ as cargo? _Not_ a bit of private trade?

Well, of all the dumbest idiots you're the dumbest ever made, Standing there and looking silly: _leave the animals alone_."

(Sailors with a tropic liver always have a brutal tone.) "By the crescent of Astarte, I am not religious--yet-- I would sooner spill the table salt than kill a sailor's pet."

A HYMN OF DISGUST

A HYMN OF DISGUST.

You wrote a pretty hymn of Hate, That won the Kaiser's praise, Which showed your nasty mental state, And made us laugh for days.

I can't compete with such as you In doggerel of mine, But this is certain--_and_ it's true, You b.l.o.o.d.y-handed swine--

We do not mouth a song of hate, or talk about you--much, We do not mention things like you--it wouldn't be polite; One doesn't talk in drawing-rooms of Prussian dirt and such, We only want to kill you off--so roll along and fight.

For men like you with filthy minds, you leave a nasty taste, We can't forget your triumphs with the girls you met in France.

By your standards of morality, gorillas would be chaste, And you consummate your triumphs with the bayonet and the lance.

You give us mental pictures of your officers at play, With naked girls a-dancing on the table as you dine, With their mothers cut to pieces, in the knightly German way, In the corners of the guard-room in a pool of blood and wine.

You had better stay in Germany, and never go abroad, For wherever you may wander you will find your fame has gone, For you are outcasts from the lists, with rust upon your sword-- The blood of many innocents--of children newly born.

You are b.e.s.t.i.a.l men and beastly, and we would not ask you home To meet our wives and daughters, for we doubt that you are clean; You will find your fame in front of you wherever you may roam, You--who came through burning Belgium with the ladies for a screen.

You--who love to hear the screaming of a girl beneath the knife, In the midst of your companions, with their craning, eager necks; When you crown your German mercy, and you take a sobbing life-- You are not exactly gentlemen towards the gentle s.e.x.

With your rapings in the market-place and slaughter of the weak, With your gross and leering conduct, and your utter lack of shame,-- When we note in all your doings such a nasty yellow streak, You show surprise at our disgust, and say you're not to blame.

We don't want any whinings, and we'd sooner wait for peace Till you realise your position, and you know you whine in vain; And you stand within a circle of the Cleaner World's Police, And we goad you into charging--and we clean the world again.

For you should know that never shall you meet us as before, That none will take you by the hand or greet you as a friend; So stay with it, and finish it--who brought about the War-- And when you've paid for all you've done--well, that will be the End.

A TRINITY

A TRINITY.

The way of a s.h.i.+p at racing speed In a bit of a rising gale, The way of a horse of the only breed At a Droxford post-and-rail, The way of a brand-new aeroplane On a frosty winter dawn.

You'll come back to those again; Wheel or cloche or slender rein Will keep you young and clean and sane, And glad that you were born.

The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea, Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me; But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, That broke and died beneath my pride--your foemen, man, and mine."

The perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve, An artist's vision in steel and bronze for G.o.ds and men to serve.

If ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing, It ought to be you--my racing girl--as the Amazon song you sing.

Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view.

"Steady, you villain--you know too much--I'm not so wild as you; You'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, So swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow.

Your high-p.r.i.c.ked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see; Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me.

You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, And there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the Hunt!"

Great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail, A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hamps.h.i.+re post-and-rail.

The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the gra.s.s That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pa.s.s.

The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,-- Nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day; Unless I chuck her about a bit--there isn't a b.u.mp or sway.

So _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, And here we are again.

And _that's_ a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground, And I and the aeroplane Are doing a glide, but upside down, and that's a village and that's a town-- And now we're rolling back.