TO “BARTIMEUS”
(From a grateful Landsman.)
Although the movements of the sea
Have always been a grief to me
And still at times disastrously
Affect my corpus vile,
Sailors of high and low degree
I long have honoured highly.
But now we honour them far more
Than ever in the days of yore
For all they’re doing in the War
To guard and shield and free us;
And this is where the man on shore
Can learn from “Bartimeus.”
For lately, when I couldn’t stick
A “fearless” book which made me sick
And positively long to kick
The author to the ceiling,
By luck I chanced on your Long Trick
And found immediate healing.
Relentless realists protest
You only have one type—the best,
Drawn from the Islands of the Blest—
Of comrades, sons and mothers;
They’d rather see you foul your nest
Than praise the “band of brothers.”
No matter; leave their ink to flow;
It cannot work you weal or woe;
The verdict of the men who know
The truth in its essentials
Should make the armchair critic slow
To challenge your credentials.
The naval officer you paint
Is not at all a plaster saint;
He doesn’t always brook restraint;
He isn’t prim or stolid;
But still he’s void of any taint
That’s mean or low or squalid.
And then you write of wondrous things
That pluck our hearts’ most secret strings—
The tender grace that childhood flings
On scenes of stern endeavour;
The news that joy and comfort brings
Or chills the heart for ever.
So when young writers, void of ruth,
Portray the flower of England’s youth
As ill-conditioned and uncouth—
In short as Huns might see us—
I turn for solace and for truth
To you, good “Bartimeus.”