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REGULUS

(Written after reading the story of that name in 'A Diversity of Creatures' by Kipling.)

 
OUT to the wharf where the long ship lay with her beak to the open sea,
He went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of Spain;
Clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea:
"Hero – Pride of the Roman State! Turn again at the Harbour-Gate,
Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again."
 
 
Out on the wharf he walked from those – that wailed and wept to see him go;
And hand in his she walked with him – her royal head on high.
And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke – her hand in his and her eyes aglow:
"Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.
But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;
 
 
"Pass to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the Gods you left for Earth;
Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.
A God, the man that leaves me now – but ah! a lover that thought me worth —
The whispered word of a husband true – I thank the Gods that I hold from you
The right that fair Eurydice knew – the love of a man Divine."
 

A NORTH SEA NOTE

 
THE wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay,
Died away as the dark closed down,
Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the day
In the Fortress-Town.
 
 
In the silence of the night as the big ships swung
To the buoys as the flood-tide made,
Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rung
By a foemen's blade.
 
 
Far above the masts where the wireless showed,
Traced out against a star-lit sky,
A voice called down from the Whist-hound's road
Where the clouds went by —
 
 
Listen down below – In the High Sea Fleet,
For a signal that was shouted up to me
By the sailors that I left on the old, old beat,
Far out in the cold North Sea.
 
 
They shouted up to me as the glass went down,
And they ducked to the North-West spray,
"Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town,
And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?
 
 
"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North,
And we'll wait till the seas run dry —
Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth,
And the twelve-inch shells go by.
 
 
"We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubt
They are longing for the day we'll meet.
But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out,
All the better for the English Fleet.
 
 
"For when we see 'em sinking – (they'll be fighting to the last,
And for those that are lost we'll grieve,)
We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast —
On arrival at the Base – Long Leave!"
 

SOMETHING WRONG

 
"THE German Fleet is coming,"
The Sunday papers say,
"And the shell will soon be humming
When they fix upon the Day."
All the Sunday experts write,
Working very late at night —
"They are coming – they'll be on you any day."
 
 
Though it's very cheery reading,
And we hear it ev'ry week;
Yet the Hun is still unheeding,
And is just as far to seek.
And it seems so unavailing
They should write and tell us so —
If the Hun is shortly sailing,
Couldn't some one let him know?
 
 
We are ready, and we're waiting,
And we know they're going to fight;
And we're just as good at hating
As the Brainy Ones that write.
But they talk of Information
They have gathered unbeknown —
That "the mighty German Nation
Is a mass of skin and bone."
And they take their affidavy
That a fight is due at sea:
Dammit – tell the German Navy,
What's the use of telling me?
 

WE

 
ALL our fighting brothers are away across the foam,
Hats off to the Englishman!
Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home,
Make a lot of money while you can!
 
 
We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the Race
With the Bulldog Grip they know;
Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace?
You'll be taken for a Yank – Go slow!
 
 
All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth;
Three cheers for the lads in blue!
An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth —
But a half-day's work will do.
 
 
The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with pride
As we live for England's fame;
To save us for posterity was why they went and died —
Oh! The War is a real fine game!
 
 
Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile,
Let the line stand fast in the West;
Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style,
While the Bulldog Boys have a rest.
 
 
What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win;
We can stand to the strain all right.
What about another rise? Send the notice in —
Just to show how the Bulldogs fight.
 
 
Chorus! all together – We're the finest race of all,
So beware of the English Blade;
Now the fighting men are gone – why, however many fall,
All the more for the lads that stayed.
 

THE SAILOR'S VIEW

(1916)

 
TOO proud to fight? I'm not so sure – our skipper now and then
Has lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men,
And other nation's submarines, when cruising round the Bight;
And 'seems to me – when they begin – the Yankee chaps can fight.
Why, if I was in the army (which I ain't – and no regrets)
And had my pick of Generals – from London's latest pets,
To Hannibal and Wellington – to follow whom I chose,
I wouldn't think about it long – I'd give the job to those
Who fought across a continent for three long years and more
(I bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-four
Of Jackson, Sherman, Lee and Grant – "The Yanks can only shout" —
That lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out);
But what the Skipper said was this; "There's only been but one
Successful submarine attack before this war begun,
And it wasn't on a liner on the easy German plan,
But on a well-found man-of-war, and Dixon was the man
Who showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you,
And I'd like to keep the standard up of Dixon and his crew,
For they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou',
But a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bow
A spar torpedo like a mine, and they and Dixon knew
That if they sank the enemy they'd sink the David too.
She'd drowned a crew or two before – they dredged her up again,
And manned and pushed her off to sea. – My oath, it's pretty plain
They had some guts to give away, that tried another trip
In a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship;
And they carried out a good attack, and did it very well.
As a model for the future, why, it beats the books to Hell,
A tradition for the U.S.A., and, yes – for England too;
For they were men with English names, and kin to me and you,
And I'd like to claim an ancestor with Dixon when he died
At the bottom of the river at the Housatonic's side."
 

STONEWALL JACKSON

 
OVER the low Virginian farms the smoke of the ev'ning rose and flowed,
The scent of cedar hung in the air – the scent of burning sap,
And up the valley the murmur died, the sound of feet on a dusty road —
A clatter and ring of horse and guns that led to Ashby's Gap.
 
 
And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream,
As the Massanutton hills grew black —
"Look your last, Shenandoah – where the bayonets gleam,
On your man who is never coming back.
 
 
"Ah! Manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steel
That you lit with the red fires' glow,
When the Grey men roared at an all-night meal,
Look again as the Grey men go.
 
 
"He is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes,
Look your last, Shenandoah, as he rides
To a death beyond the Gap where the dust-clouds rise,
O'er the road that the greenwood hides.
 
 
"He will send a message back as the dark clouds lower,
And you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze,
Let us pass across the river (can you hear me, Shenandoah?)
To a rest in the shadow of the trees."
 

WET SHIPS

"… And will remain on your Patrol till the 8th December…" – (Extract from Orders.)

 
THE North-East Wind came armed and shod from the ice-locked Baltic shore,
The seas rose up in the track he made, and the rollers raced before;
He sprang on the Wilhelmshaven ships that reeled across the tide.
"Do you cross the sea to-night with me?" the cold North-Easter cried —
Along the lines of anchored craft the Admiral's answer flashed,
And loud the proud North-Easter laughed as the second anchors splashed.
"By God! you're right – you German men, with a three-day gale to blow,
It is better to wait by your harbour gate than follow where I go!"
 
 
Over the Bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered:
"I rule – I rule the Northern waste – I speak, and the seas are cleared;
You nations all whose harbours ring the edge of my Northern sea,
At peace or war, when you hear my voice you shall know no Lord but me."
Then into the wind in a cloud of foam and sheets of rattling spray,
Head to the bleak and breaking seas in dingy black and grey,
Taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy green
Came out to her two-year-old patrol – an English submarine.
 
 
The voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white:
"You'll know my power, you English craft, before you make the Bight;
I rule – I rule this Northern Sea, that I raise and break to foam.
Whom do you call your Overlord that dares me in my home?"
Over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray,
She showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay,
Clanging her answer up the blast that made her wireless sing:
"I serve the Lord of the Seven Seas. Ha! Splendour of God – the King!!"
 
 
Twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang,
Over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang;
Then down she fell till the waters rose to meet her straining rails —
"I serve my King, who sends me here to meet your winter gales."
(Rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through,
While high above her reeling bridge their shattered remnants flew);
"If you blow the stars from the sky to-night, your boast in your teeth I'll fling,
I am your master – Overlord, and – Dog of the English King!"