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 shining 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 ships would scorn,
But now we're running a decent trade—howitzer-shell 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 ships 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 bump in 'Ninety-three,
Or the work of a German gun?"