AT THE NAVAL REVIEW.
Neptune (to Vulcan). Hillo, Mate, you here?
Vulcan. Yes, my hearty; why not?
Neptune. Well, my ancient monopoly's all gone to pot.
You've been "inching it in," for a number of years;
Your Lemnos no longer has charms, it appears
To detain you on shore. Once a Naval Review
To a smithy-smoked game-legged land-lubber like you——
Vulcan. Oh, avast heaving there, Mate!
Neptune. By Jove, he's as pat
At our nautical patter as Dibdin, that's flat.
Can't you tip us "Tom Bowling"?
Vulcan. Aye! (sings) "Here a sheer hulk"——
Neptune. Oh, stop! What a voice for a chap of your bulk!
'Tis as shrill as a file-squeak, and equally mellow.
Vulcan. Oh yes, you old Stentor, a big breezy bellow
Is your sole idea of a song.
Neptune (offering his 'baccy-box amicably). Have a quid?
Vulcan. I don't care if I do. But you know as a kid
After leaving Olympus——
Neptune. Ha! ha! A fair "chuck."
Poor Juno! She felt she was quite out of luck,
To bear such a skinny young dot-and-go-one.
Vulcan. Oh, if these are your manners——
Neptune. Pooh! Only my fun.
Fire away with your yarn. Let's see, where had you got to?
Vulcan. You know that I lived some nine years in a grotto,
With Thetis, that belle of the Ocean, and therefore
I'm not such a land-lubber. Not that I care for
Your coarse briny flouts, my old Mulberry-nose.
Neptune. Humph! You've turned a teetotaller now, I suppose,
And should I sing "Hey! Ho! and a bottle of rum,"
You'd not join in the song—or the swizzle?
Vulcan. Oh, come,
We have no Wilfrid Lawson in Sicily yet;
All my Cyclops would strike. Yes! I'm game for a "wet."
Neptune. That's hearty. Now, then, you young Triton, look slippy,
Fetch up t'other bottle. I feel rather nippy.
And then the occasion! Britannia's my dear,
We must drink to her health in this Jubilee Year.
Vulcan. I'm glad you say "We."
Neptune. Well, I own you are "in it."
I wouldn't dispute your fair claims for a minute,
But they're thundering ugly, your new Iron Walls,
And when a big fight comes,—well, look out for squalls.
This playing at battle is all very grand,
But I think twelve-inch metal much fitter for land.
Wood's the stuff for the sea; that's a point in my credo.
That "mount" of yours safe? I don't think a torpedo
A patch on a Sea-horse, or even a Triton.
Vulcan. All right! 'tisn't charged, so there's nothing to frighten.
Things are not now done in your toasting-fork way.
Neptune. Humph! My trident enabled Britannia to sway
In a style that's admitted on every side;
Whilst your guns and torpedoes remain to be tried.
Your Armstrongs and Whiteheads may give themselves airs,
But they don't seem to stop periodical "scares."
Perhaps you may wish, when it does come to war,
For the old Man-of-war and the old pig-tailed Tar.
However, old boy, here's the grog. That's a bottle
That might have glug-glug'd down my Nelson's brave throttle;
It's been in my cellar since Trafalgar.
Vulcan. Truly?
Neptune. Yes. 'Tis a big day,—let us honour it duly;
A splendid wind-up to the Jubilee fêtes.
Well, manhood and pluck are not matters of date.
Let us hope, when it really does come to a tussle,
That brave British spirit and stout British muscle
May have the same pull as they did in the days
When "yard-arm to yard-arm" was Jack's favoured phrase,
When death-stored torpedoes and Titan-lipped guns
And steel in huge masses, and fast-flying tons
Had never been dreamed of. Ah! Vulcan, your reign
Has played up rare pranks with my briny domain;
The jolly old days of Drake, Benbow, and Nelson.
Success to Old England, short shrift to her foes;
My favourite, spite of all change, I confess her.
A bumper, my boy! Here's the Queen, and God bless her!
