And the sea climbs high on the strand,
It is I that am wan as the wan water
Or ever I win to land.”
“Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“Till the actual qualms befall,
And tell me, I pray, what men may say
Of the mails which we travel withal.”
“O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout,
But and a Gladstone bag,
With a bottle of blacking and brush inside