Part 3

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 grass 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 pass 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 passed 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: "Pass 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"

"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 ashore."

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 ship 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 bloody-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 bestial 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 sex.

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 ship 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 gods 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-pricked 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 Hampshire post-and-rail.

* * * * *

The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass. 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 bump 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. And _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, The wires and strainers slack. And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar And steer for London Town. For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn But started stunting soon, To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, Or whether his hands were gloved or bare, Or he sat in a free balloon.

IN THE MORNING

IN THE MORNING.

Back from battle, torn and rent, Listing bridge and stanchions bent By the angry sea. By Thy guiding mercy sent, Fruitful was the road we went-- Back from battle we.

If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm, If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, When against us men arose and sought to work us harm, We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam.

Heaving sea and cloudy sky Saw the battle flashing by As Thy foemen ran. By Thy grace, that made them fly, We have seen two hundred die Since the fight began.

If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right, If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord! If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight, We never should have closed with them--Thy seas are dark and broad.

Through the iron rain they fled, Bearing home the tale of dead, Flying from Thy sword. After-hatch to fo'c'sle head, We have turned their decks to red, By Thy help, O Lord!

It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, But Thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud; It was not arm of ours that saved, but Thine, O Lord, alone, When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud.

Sixty miles of running fight, Finished at the dawning light, Off the Zuider Zee. Thou that helped throughout the night Weary hand and aching sight, Praise, O Lord, to Thee.

IN FORTY WEST

IN FORTY WEST.

We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, And the word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine; As the rising of the tide On the Old-World side, We are coming to the battle, to the Line.

From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North, We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth: "We have put the pen away, And the sword is out to-day, For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath."

We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight, As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light; In the wharf-light glare They can hear us Over There, When the ships come steaming through the night.

Right across the deep Atlantic where the _Lusitania_ passed, With the battle-flag of Yankeeland a-floating at the mast, We are coming all the while, Over twenty hundred mile, And were staying to the finish, to the last.

We are many--we are one--and we're in it overhead, We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead, And the old Rebel Yell Will be loud above the shell When we cross the top together, seeing red.

A RING AXIOM

A RING AXIOM.

When the pitiless gong rings out again, and they whip your chair away, When you feel you'd like to take the floor, whatever the crowd should say, When the hammering gloves come back again, and the world goes round your head, When you know your arms are only wax, your hands of useless lead, When you feel you'd give your heart and soul for a chance to clinch and rest, And through your brain the whisper comes, "Give in, you've done your best,"-- Why, stiffen your knees and brace your back, and take my word as true-- _If the man in front has got you weak, he's just as tired as you_. He can't attack through a gruelling fight and finish as he began; He's done more work than you to-day--you're just as fine a man. So call your last reserve of pluck--he's careless with his chin-- You'll put it across him every time--Go in--Go in--_Go in_!

THE QUARTERMASTER

THE QUARTERMASTER.

I mustn't look up from the compass-card, nor look at the seas at all, I must watch the helm and compass-card,--If I heard the trumpet-call Of Gabriel sounding Judgment Day to dry the Seas again, I must hold her bow to windward now till I'm relieved again-- To the pipe and wail of a tearing gale, Carrying Starboard Ten.

I must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl, North and South and back again with every lurching roll. By the feel of the ship beneath I know the way she's going to swing, But I mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing-- In a breaking sea with the land a-lee, Carrying Starboard Ten.

And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night, For it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light; But the spokes are bright, and I note beside in the corner of my eye A shimmer of light on oilskin wet that shows the Owner nigh-- Foggy and thick and a windy trick, Carrying Starboard Ten.

Heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now; Though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow, I've got my eyes on the compass-card, and though she broke her keel And hit the bottom beneath us now, you'd find me at the wheel-- In Davy's realm, still at the helm, Carrying Starboard Ten.

IN THE BARRED ZONE

IN THE BARRED ZONE.

They called us up from England at the breaking of the day, And the wireless whisper caught us from a hundred leagues away-- "Sentries at the Outer Line, All that hold the countersign, Listen in the North Sea--news for you to-day."

All across the waters, at the paling of the morn, The wireless whispered softly ere the summer day was born-- "Be you near or ranging far, By the Varne or Weser bar, The Fleet is out and steaming to the Eastward and the dawn."

Far and away to the North and West, in the dancing glare of the sunlit ocean, Just a haze, a shimmer of smoke-cloud, grew and broadened many a mile; Low and long and faint and spreading, banner and van of a world in motion, Creeping out to the North and West, it hung in the skies alone awhile.

Then from over the brooding haze the roar of murmuring engines swelled, And the men of the air looked down to us, a mile below their feet; Down the wind they passed above, their course to the silver sun-track held, And we looked back to the West again, and saw the English Fleet.

Over the curve of the rounded sea, in ordered lines as the ranks of Rome, Over the far horizon steamed a power that held us dumb,-- Miles of racing lines of steel that flattened the sea to a field of foam, Rolling deep to the wash they made, We saw, to the threat of a German blade, The Shield of England come.

WHO CARES?

WHO CARES?

The sentries at the Castle Gate, We hold the outer wall, That echoes to the roar of hate And savage bugle-call-- Of those that seek to enter in with steel and eager flame, To leave you with but eyes to weep the day the Germans came.

Though we may catch from out the Keep A whining voice of fear, Of one who whispers "Rest and sleep, And lay aside the spear," We pay no heed to such as he, as soft as we are hard; We take our word from men alone--the men that rule the guard.

We hear behind us now and then The voices of the grooms, And bickerings of serving-men Come faintly from the rooms; But let them squabble as they please, we will not turn aside, But--curse to think it was for them that fighting men have died.

Whatever they may say or try, We shall not pay them heed; And though they wail and talk and lie, We hold our simple Creed-- No matter what the cravens say, however loud the din, Our Watch is on the Castle Gate, and none shall enter in.

THE UNCHANGING SEX

THE UNCHANGING SEX.

When the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng-- All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along-- Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home, He felt himself an Emperor--the bravest man of Rome. The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew, Then drifted back along the road to look for something new. Then Horatius sobered down a bit--as you would do to-day-- And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way. He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry, And set a parting in his hair--the same as you and I. His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down, And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown. "You _are_ a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen; Now go and put your sword away, I _know_ it isn't clean. And you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet; You've been doing something mischievous, I hope you lost your bet.... Why! you're bleeding on the carpet. Who's the brute that hurt you so? Did you kill him? _There's a darling!_ Serve him right for hitting low." Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves, And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves). And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled, And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child. Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry, Yet I rather think he liked it--just the same as you and I.

LOOKING AFT

LOOKING AFT.

I'm the donkey-man of a dingy tramp They launched in 'Eighty-one, Rickety, old, and leaky too--but some o' the rivets are shining new Beneath our after-gun.

An' she an' meself are off to sea From out o' the breaker's hands, An' we laugh to find such an altered game, for devil a thing we found the same When we came off the land.

We used to carry a freight of trash That younger ships would scorn, But now we're running a decent trade--howitzer-shell and hand-grenade, Or best Alberta corn.

We used to sneak an' smouch along Wi' rusty side an' rails, Hoot an' bellow of liners proud--"Give us the room that we're allowed; Get out o' the track--the Mails!"

We sometimes met--an' took their wash-- The 'aughty ships o' war, An' we dips to them--an' they to us--an' on they went in a tearin' fuss, But now they count us more.

For now we're "England's Hope and Pride"-- The Mercantile Marine,-- "Bring us the goods and food we lack, because we're hungry, Merchant Jack" (As often I have been).

"You're the man to save us now, We look to you to win; Wot'd yer like? A rise o' pay? We'll give whatever you like to say, But bring the cargoes in."

An' here we are in the danger zone, Wi' escorts all around, Destroyers a-racing to and fro--"We will show you the way to go, An' guide you safe an' sound."

"An' did you cross in a comfy way, Or did you have to run? An' is the patch on your hull we see the mark of a bump in 'Ninety-three, Or the work of a German gun?"

"We'll lead you now, and keep beside, An' call to all the Fleet, Clear the road and sweep us in--he carries a freight we need to win, A golden load of wheat."

Yes, we're the hope of England now, And rank wi' the Navy too; An' all the papers speak us fair--"Nothing he will not lightly dare, Nothing he fears to do."

"Be polite to Merchant Jack, Who brings you in the meat, For if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray, With never a bone to eat."