On Patrol Part 9

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 s.h.i.+mmer 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 s.e.x

THE UNCHANGING s.e.x.

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ps would scorn, But now we're running a decent trade--howitzer-sh.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 b.u.mp 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."

But you can lay your papers down An' set your fears aside, For we will keep the ocean free--we o' the clean an' open sea-- To break the German pride.

We won't go canny or strike for pay, Or say we need a rest; But you get on wi' the blinkin' War--an' not so much o' your strikes ash.o.r.e, Or givin' the German best.

A MAXIM