On Patrol Part 6

HANG ON.

Two o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow, But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!

So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon, Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon; And here it comes--she'll be much too late--yes, d.a.m.n it, she's out of tune-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow, And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row; Then _rah-rah-rah_ on a rising note--my oath, they're racing now-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past, And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one--Blast--!

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew-- "I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you, And you'd better be quick and lift again--she won't, she's diving through"-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The Lord be thanked, it's my relief--Cheer up, old sport, it's clean; No, just enough to wash your face--you could hardly call it green; A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

TO FRITZ

TO FRITZ.

I wish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea-- I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me; There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz, But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits.

I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron Cross By strafing sail and cargo ships--but don't you feel the loss Of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war, And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar?

When you know that it's a case of "May the fish run good and true,"

For if they don't it's ten to one it's R.I.P. for you?

Although perhaps you can't be blamed--your motives may be pure-- You're rather new to submarines--in fact, an amateur; But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done, And leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother Hun.

You wouldn't like the job, my lad--the motors turning slow, You wouldn't like the winter-time--storm and wind and snow; You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz--unless your faith is strong-- Up and down on the long patrol--How long, O Lord, how long?

We don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there, Up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the E-boat's prayer: "Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky, And help our eyes at the periscope as the High Sea Fleet goes by."

TO THE SCOTTISH REGIMENTS

TO THE SCOTTISH REGIMENTS.

_Land of sorrow--war and weeping, Granite rock and falling snow, Where Romance is never sleeping, Where the fires of freedom glow._

Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost, Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame; From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost Ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name?

While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul, The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall-- From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North-- "_Amboglanna has sent for aid, For the heather is bright with targe and blade Away to the silvery Forth._"

When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe That filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below, When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight-- "_Shoulder to shoulder around the King, Hear the Claymore whistle and sing Our funeral song to-night._"

The English knew it at Prestonpans--the wall against their backs, When down the slope the clansmen came with the long Lochaber axe, The dew on the gra.s.s and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,-- _Pipers playing on either flank-- "Steady the volleys, the leading rank!"

The fires were blazing then._

And the spark has gone to Flanders, as the Prussian butchers know, For they learnt at Loos and Hulluch from the Caledonian sword The prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago-- "From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord."

PRIVILEGED

PRIVILEGED.

They called across to Peter at the changing of the Guard, At the red-gold Doors that the Angels keep,-- "Send us help to the Portal, for they press upon us hard, They are straining at the Gate, many deep."

Then Peter rose and went to the wicket by the Wall, Where the Starlight flashed upon the crowd; And he saw a mighty wave from the Greatest Gale of all Break beneath him with a roar, swelling loud--

"_Let us in! Let us in! We have left a load of sin On the battlefield that flashes far below.

From the trenches or the sea there's a pa.s.s for such as we, For we died with our faces to the foe.

"We haven't any creed, for we never felt the need, And our morals are as ragged as can be; But we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay, And we're coming to you clean, as you can see."_

Then Peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips, And he answered, "Ye are fighters, as I know By your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships, And the wounds that on your bodies glisten so."

And he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim, And his glance was all-embracing--unafraid; And he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him, All a-level as a new-forged blade.

"Ye are savage men and rough--from the fo'c'sle and the tent; Ye have put High Heaven to alarm; But I see it written clear by the road ye went, That ye held by the Fifteenth Psalm."

And they shouted in return, "_'Tis a thing we've never read, But you pa.s.sed our friends inside That won to the end of the road we tread Long ago when the Mons Men died._"

"_Let us in! Let us in! We have fallen for the Right, And the Crown that we listed to win, That we earned by the Somme or the waters of the Bight; You're a fighting man yourself--Let us in!_"

Then Peter gave a sign and the Gates flung wide To the sound of a bugle-call: "Pa.s.s the fighting men to the ranks inside, Who came from the earth or the cold grey tide, With their heads held high and a soldiers stride, To a Friend in the Judgment Hall."

"OUR ANNUAL"