A Treasury of War Poetry Part 27

THE MINE-SWEEPERS

Dawn off the Foreland--the young flood making Jumbled and short and steep-- Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking-- Awkward water to sweep.

"Mines reported in the fairway, Warn all traffic and detain.

Sent up _Unity_, _Claribel_, _a.s.syrian_, _Stormc.o.c.k_, and _Golden Gain_."

Noon off the Foreland--the first ebb making Lumpy and strong in the bight.

Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking And the jackdaws wild with fright.

"Mines located in the fairway, Boats now working up the chain, Sweepers--_Unity_, _Claribel_, _a.s.syrian_, _Stormc.o.c.k_, and _Golden Gain_."

Dusk off the Foreland--the last light going And the traffic crowding through, And five d.a.m.ned trawlers with their syreens blowing Heading the whole review!

"Sweep completed in the fairway.

No more mines remain.

Sent back _Unity_, _Claribel_, _a.s.syrian_, _Stormc.o.c.k_, and _Golden Gain_."

Rudyard Kipling_

MARE LIBERUM

You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"?

_You_, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,-- What you call freedom, men call piracy!

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head,-- A dark memorial of the dead,-- Women and children whom you left to drown.

Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee-- Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea-- To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

In n.o.bler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must,"

And Honor rules in peace and war.

With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and sh.o.r.e.

_Henry van d.y.k.e_

_February 11, 1917_

THE DAWN PATROL

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- Silver, and cold, and slow, Dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me.

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little fleet of anch.o.r.ed ships, which lie In cl.u.s.tered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamed eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by.

Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies, And far removed from warlike enterprise-- Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through s.p.a.ce.

Then do I feel with G.o.d quite, quite alone, High in the virgin morn, so white and still, And free from human ill: My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill-- As though the glowing sun were G.o.d's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn--then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; Then bow my humble head, In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

_Paul Bewsher_

DESTROYERS OFF JUTLAND

["If lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do."--_Rudyard Kipling_.]

They had hot scent across the spumy sea, _Gehenna_ and her sister, swift _Shaitan_, That in the pack, with _Goblin_, _Eblis_ ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly.

But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, These hounds that England suckled at the birth.

_Reginald McIntosh Cleveland_

BRITISH MERCHANT SERVICE

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say: "Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?"

"Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also....

From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao....

With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Californ-i-o....

"With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string....

But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King!

"And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) Or hanging out with b.o.o.by-traps for the skulking submarines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans!

"A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be, For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!"

There's not a port he doesn't know from Melbourne to New York; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork....

And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work!

He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills With turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills....

But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills.

He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark--and half of 'em are true!