On Patrol. Bower John Graham

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      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!

      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."

      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.

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