have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,Load us well and sponge us clean —
Be your woman a slave or queen —
And we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword.
We come into our own again and wake to life anew—
Put your paper and pens away,
For the whole of the world is ours to-day,
And we shall do the talking now to smooth the way for you.
Howitzer gun or Seventy-five, the game is ours to play,
And hills may quiver and mountains shake,
But the line in front shall bend or break.
What is it to us if the world is mad? For we are the Kings to-day.
SKY SIGNS
WHEN all the guns are sponged and cleaned, and fuzes go to store,
when all the wireless stations cry – "come home, you ships of war" —
"come home again and leave patrol, no matter where you be."
We'll see the lights of England shine,
Flashing again on the steaming line,
As out of the dark the long grey hulls come rolling in from sea.
The long-forgotten lights will shine and gild the clouds ahead,
Over the dark horizon-line, across the dreaming dead
That went to sea with the dark behind and the spin of a coin before.
Mark the gleam of Orfordness,
Showing a road we used to guess,
From the Shetland Isles to Dover cliffs – the shaded lane of war.
Up the channel with gleaming ports will homing squadrons go,
And see the English coast alight with headlands all aglow
With thirty thousand candle-power flung up from far Gris-nez.
Portland Bill and the Needles' Light —
Tompions back in the guns to-night —
For English lights are meeting French across the Soldiers' Way.
When we come back to England then, with all the warring done,
And paint and polish come up the side to rule on tube and gun,
We'll know before the anchor's down, the tidings won't be new.
Lizard along to the Isle of Wight,
Every lamp was burning bright,
Northern Lights or Trinity House – we had the news from you!
AN ENTENTE
AS we were running the Channel along, with a rising wind abeam,
Steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam,
I'd just come up, relieving Bill, to look for Fritz again,
When I turns to the Skipper an', "Sir," I says, "I 'ears an aeroplane."
An' sure enough, from out o' the clouds astern, we seed 'im come,
An' down the wind the engine sang with a reg'lar oarin' 'um.
The Skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me,
"We needn't be pointin' guns at 'im – 'e's one o' the R.F.C.
We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines,
From here to France an' back again – except for submarines."
An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believe
It's a fightin' bus – good luck to them – an' lots of London leave."
An' jolly good luck, says I, says I,
To you that's overhead;
An' may you never go dry, go dry,
Or want for a decent bed.
With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I,
Of Red an' White an' Blue —
Oh, may the bullets go by, go by,
An' not be findin' you.
Astonishing luck, says I, says I,
To you an' yer aeroplane;
An' if it's yer joss to die, to die,
When you go back again —
May the enemy say as you drop below,
An' you start your final dive:
"Three of us left to see him go,
An' it must be nice for him to know,
That wasn't afraid o' five."
A BATTLE-PRAYER
WHEN the breaking wavelets pass all sparkling to the sky,
When beyond their crests we see the slender masts go by,
When the glimpses alternate in bubbles white and green,
And funnels grey against the sky show clear and fair between,
When the word is passed along – "Stern and beam and bow" —
"Action stations fore and aft – all torpedoes now!"
When the hissing tubes are still, as if with bated breath
They waited for the word to loose the silver bolts of death,
When the Watch beneath the Sea shall crown the great Desire,
And hear the coughing rush of air that greets the word to fire,
We'll ask for no advantage, Lord – but only we would pray
That they may meet this boat of ours upon their outward way.
THE moment we have waited long
Is closing on us fast,
When, cutting short the turret-gong,
We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-song
That hails the Day at last.
The clashing rams come driving forth
To meet the waiting shell,
And far away to East and North
Our targets steam to meet Thy Wrath,
And dare the Gates of Hell.
We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-day
To stay the sinking sun —
But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray,
And keep, O Lord, Thy mists away
Until Thy work is done.
THROUGH the dark night
And the fury of battle
Pass the destroyers in showers of spray.
As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle,
We shall close in on them – shadows of grey.
In from ahead,
Through shell-flashes red,
We shall come down to them, after the Day.
Whistle and crash
Of salvo and volley
Round us and into us while we attack.
Light on our target they'll flash in their folly,
Splitting our ears with the shrapnel-crack.
Fire
