"We'll lead you now, and keep beside,
An' call to all the Fleet,
Clear the road and sweep us in—he carries a freight we need to win,
A golden load of wheat."
Yes, we're the hope of England now,
And rank wi' the Navy too;
An' all the papers speak us fair—"Nothing he will not lightly dare,
Nothing he fears to do."
"Be polite to Merchant Jack,
Who brings you in the meat,
For if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray,
With never a bone to eat."
But you can lay your papers down
An' set your fears aside,
For we will keep the ocean free—we o' the clean an' open sea—
To break the German pride.
We won't go canny or strike for pay,
Or say we need a rest;
But you get on wi' the blinkin' War—an' not so much o' your strikes ashore,
Or givin' the German best.
GRIT.
The Captain of H.M. T.B.D. Upavon was in a bad humour. He had decided when he left harbour that this patrol was going to be an uninteresting one, as the area allotted to him covered no traffic lane, and was therefore unlikely to hold an enemy within its boundaries. The dulness of a blank horizon had continued to confirm him in his opinion since the patrol began. He spoke from his arm-chair as the First Lieutenant struggled into his oilskins preparatory to going on deck for the First Watch.
"I don't care what courses you steer so long as you work along to the west'ard and keep the alterations logged. Beat across in twelve-mile tacks, and tell your relief to do the same. I'll be keeping the morning, and I'll turn round and work east at six. Got it?"