Part 9

But while they went by the coast of Kent up spoke an aged tar-- "A joke's a joke, but this 'ere moke is going a bit too far; I can tell by the motion we're nearing the ocean--and _that's_ too far for me;" But just as he spoke the tow-rope broke and the ship sailed out to sea.

And somewhere out on the deep, no doubt, they probe the problems through Of who's in charge of the poor old barge and what they ought to do; And the great files flash and the dockets crash and the ink-wells smoke like sin, But many a U-boat tells the tale how the _President_ did her in.

For many have tried to pierce her hide and flung torpedoes at her, But the vessel, they found, was barraged round with a mile of paper matter; The whole sea swarms with Office Forms and the U-boats stick like glue, So nothing can touch the _President_ much, for nothing at all gets through.

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But never, alack, will the ship come back, for the _President_ she's stuck too.

A. P. HERBERT. May 15, 1918.

The Old Ships

They called 'em from the breakers' yards, the shores of Dead Men's Bay, From coaling wharves the wide world round, red-rusty where they lay, And chipped and caulked and scoured and tarred and sent 'em on their way.

It didn't matter what they were nor what they once had been, They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and scraped the stringers clean And turned 'em out to try their luck with the mine and submarine...

With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two, And she's fit for the risks o' war-- Fit for to carry a freight or two, The same as she used before; To carry a cargo here and there, And what she carries she don't much care Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales, Coal or cotton or nuts or nails, Pork or pepper or Spanish beans, Mules or millet or sewing-machines, Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill... She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still, The same as she's done before.

And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away, And some were liners that had broke all records in their day, And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay.

And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown, Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting down With cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town...

With a handful or two o' ratline stuff, And she's fit for to sail once more; She's rigged and she's ready and right enough, The same as she was before; The same old ship on the same old road She's always used and she's always knowed, For there isn't a blooming wind can blow In all the latitudes, high or low, Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls, From both the Tropics to both the Poles, But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain, She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again, The same as she's done before.

And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small, The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall, They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all.

And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew, But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do, With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you...

With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar, And she's fit for the seas once more, To carry the Duster near and far, The same as she used before; The same old Rag on the same old round, Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound, Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam, Both the Rios and Rotterdam-- Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks, Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks-- Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine), She's been there once and she'll go there again, The same as she's been before.

* * * *

Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne-- God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to the tin-fish and the mine, By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line.

With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell, And she'll follow the seas no more, She's fetched and carried and served you well, The same as she's done before-- They've fetched and carried and gone their way, As good ships should and as brave men may... And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again, The same good ships and the same good men, The same--the same--the same as we've done before!

MISS C. FOX SMITH. April 9, 1919.

The Three Ships

I had tramped along through dockland till the day was all but spent, But for all the ships I there did find I could not be content; By the good pull-ups for carmen and the Chinese dives I passed, And the streets of grimy houses each one grimier than the last, And the shops whose shoddy oilskins many a sailorman has cursed In the wintry Western ocean when it's weather of the worst-- All among the noisy graving docks and waterside saloons And the pubs with punk pianos grinding out their last year's tunes, And the rattle of the winches handling freights from near and far; And the whiffs of oil and engines, and the smells of bilge and tar; And of all the craft I came across, the finest for to see Was a dandy ocean liner--but she wasn't meant for me! She was smart as any lady, and the place was fair alive With the swarms of cooks and waiters, just like bees about a hive; It was nigh her time for sailing, and a man could hardly stir For the piles of rich folks' dunnage here and there and everywhere. But the stewards and the awnings and the white paint and the gold Take a deal o' living up to for a chap that's getting old; And the mailboat life's a fine one, but a shellback likes to be Where he feels a kind o' homelike after half his life at sea.

So I sighed and passed her by--"Fare you well, my dear," said I, "You're as smart and you're as dainty as can be; You're a lady through and through, but I know it wouldn't do-- You're a bit too much a rich man's gal for me!"

So I rambled on through dockland, but I couldn't seem to find Out of all the craft I saw there just the one to please my mind; There were tramps and there were tankers, there were freighters large and small, There were concrete ships and standard ships and motor ships and all, And of all the blessed shooting-match the one I liked the best Was a saucy topsail schooner from some harbour in the West. She was neat and she was pretty as a country lass should be, And the girl's name on her counter seemed to suit her to a T; You could almost smell the roses, almost see the red and green Of the Devon plough and pasture where her home port must have been, And I'll swear her blocks were creaking in a kind o' Devon drawl-- Oh, she took my fancy rarely, but I left her after all! For it's well enough, is coasting, when the summer days are long, And the summer hours slip by you just as sweetly as a song, When you catch the scent of clover blowing to you off the shore, And there's scarce a ripple breaking from the Land's End to the Nore; But I like a bit more sea-room when the short dark days come in, And the Channel gales and sea-fogs and the nights as black as sin, When you're groping in a fairway that's as crowded as a town With the whole damned Channel traffic looking out to run you down, Or a bloody lee shore's waiting with its fierce and foaming lips For the bones of poor drowned sailormen and broken ribs of ships.

So I sighed and shook my head--"Fare you well, my dear," I said, "You're a bit too fond o' soundings, lass, for me; Oh, you're Devon's own dear daughter--but my fancy's for deep water And I think I'll set a course for open sea!"

So I tramped along through dockland, through the Isle of Dogs I went, But for all the ships I found there still I couldn't be content, Till, not far from Millwall Basin, in a dingy, dreary pond, Mouldy wharf-sheds all around it and a breaker's yard beyond, With its piles of rusty anchors and chain-cables large and small, Broken bones of ships forgotten--there I found her after all! She was foul from West Coast harbours, she was worn with wind and tide, There was paint on all the bright work that was once her captain's pride, And her gear was like a junk-store, and her decks a shame to see, And her shrouds they wanted rattling down as badly as could be; But she lay there on the water just as graceful as a gull, Keeping some old builder's secret in her strong and slender hull; By her splendid sweep of sheer-line and her clean, keen clipper bow You might know she'd been a beauty, and, by God, she was one now! And the river gulls were crying, and the sluggish river tide Made a kind of running whisper by her red and rusted side, And the river breeze came murmuring her tattered gear among, Like some old shellback, known of old, that sings a sailor's song, That whistles through his yellow teeth an old deepwater tune (The same did make the windows shake in the Boomerang Saloon!), Or by the steersman's elbow stays to tell a seaman's tale About the skippers and the crews in great old days of sail!

And I said: "My dear, although you are growing old, I know, And as crazy and as cranky as can be, If you'll take me for your lover, oh we'll sail the wide seas over, You're the ship among them all that's meant for me!'

MISS C. FOX SMITH. Oct. 1, 1919.

Spanish Ledges

SCILLY.

The bells of Cadiz clashed for them When they sailed away; The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for them Over the Bay; With banners of saints aloft unfolding, Their poops a glitter of golden moulding, Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing, Into the sunset they went swaying. But the port they sought they wandered wide of, And they won't see Spain again this side of Judgment Day.

For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town, Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters. No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets, No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters; No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them, Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite, No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep-- Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.

The bells of Cadiz tolled for them Mournful and glum; Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for them On the black drum; Priests had many a mass to handle, Nuestra Señora many a candle, And many a lass grew old in praying For a sight of those topsails homeward swaying-- But it's late to wait till a girl is bride of A Jack who won't be back this side of Kingdom Come.

But little they care down there, down there, Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters; They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty, Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters. At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports, A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white, While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songs And dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.

CROSBIE GARSTIN. Sept. 22, 1920.

A Cornish Lullaby

A.D. 1760.

Sleep, my little ugling, Daddy's gone a-smuggling, Daddy's gone to Roscoff in the _Mevagissey Maid_, A sloop of ninety tons With ten brass-carriage guns, To teach the King's ships manners and respect for honest trade.

Hush, my joy and sorrow, Daddy'll come to-morrow Bringing baccy, tea and snuff and brandy home from France; And he'll run the goods ashore While the old Collectors snore And the wicked troopers gamble in the dens of Penzance.

Rock-a-bye, my honey, Daddy's making money; You shall be a gentleman and sail with privateers, With a silver cup for sack And a blue coat on your back, With diamonds on your finger-bones and gold rings in your ears.

CROSBIE GARSTIN. June 30, 1920.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.