Came he to see me, to run back again.
"Four hours' leave, mother—still got the steam up,
Going on patrol to-night—the old East lane."
"Seven times lucky, and perhaps we'll have a battle,
Then I'll bring a medal back and give it you to keep."
And his name is in the paper, with close upon a hundred,
Who lie there beside him, many fathom deep.
And beside him in the paper, somebody is writing,
—God! but how I hate him—a liar and a fool,—
"Where is the British Navy—is it staying in the harbours?