Chapter C: Kenneth Burrow

Dec. 18, 1918.

Good-Bye, Australians

Through the Channel's drift and toss
Swift your homing transports churn;
Soon for you the Southron Cross
High above your bows shall burn;
Soon beyond the rolling Bight
Gleam the Leeuwin's lance of light.

Rich reward your hearts shall hold,
None less dear if long delayed,
For with gifts of wattle-gold
Shall your country's debt be paid;
From her sunlight's golden store
She shall heal your hurts of war.

Ere the mantling Channel mist
Dim your distant decks and spars,
And your flag that victory kissed
And Valhalla hung with stars--
Crowd and watch our signal fly:
"Gallant hearts, good-bye! _Good-bye!_"

W. H. OGILVIE.
Jan. 15, 1919.

The Belfries

If you should go to La Bassée
Or Bethune, grey and bare,
You'll hear the sweetest bells that play
A faint and chiming air;
And belfries in each little town
Sing out the hour and mark it down.

If you should go to La Bassée
Or walk the Bethune street
You'll see the lorries pass that way
And hear the tramp of feet;
And where the road with trees is lined
You'll watch the long battalions wind.

But all the clocks that mark the time
Are months and years too slow,
And all the bells that ring and chime
Strike hours of long ago,
And all the belfries where you pass
Lie tumbled in the dust and grass.

Yet still the long battalions wind.
Though all the men are gone,
Because one hour has stayed behind
And wanders there alone--
Yes, one heroic shining hour
Chimes on from every fallen tower.

MRS. A. P. TROTTER.
Aug. 27, 1919.

Saturdays

Now has the soljer handed in his pack,
And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung;
I've got a pension and my ole job back--
Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung;
But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay
And my gratuity in honest Brads
To go down to the field nex' Saturday
And have a game o' football with the lads.

It's Saturdays as does it. In the week
It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things;
But I gets up against it, so to speak,
When half-day-off comes round again and brings
The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men
Back to my mind--there's no denying it;
There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then,
"Thank Gawd, I went _toot sweet_ an' did my bit!"

Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less;
There's some pore blokes back there who played the game
Until they heard the whistle go, I guess,
For Time an' Time eternal. All the same
It makes me proper down at heart and sick
To see the lads go laughing off to play;
I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick--
But what's the good of talkin', anyway?

E. W. PIGOTT.
Jan. 28, 1920.

_Sea-Scape_

The North Sea Ground

Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find,
An' Grimsby wives are thrifty wives, an' Grimsby girls are kind,
An' Grimsby lads were never yet the lads to lag behind
When there's men's work doin' on the North Sea ground.

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the high tide's flowin',
An' off the misty waters a cold wind blowin';
Skipper's come aboard, an' it's time that we were goin',
An' there's fine fish waitin' on the North Sea ground.

Soles in the Silver Pit--an' there we'll let 'em lie;
Cod on the Dogger--oh, we'll fetch 'em by-an'-by;
War on the water--an' it's time to serve an' die,
For there's wild work doin' on the North Sea ground.

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" they want you at the trawlin'
(With your long sea-boots and your tarry old tarpaulin');
All across the bitter seas duty comes a-callin'
In the Winter's weather off the North Sea ground.

It's well we've learned to laugh at fear--the sea has taught us how;
It's well we've shaken hands with death--we'll not be strangers now,
With death in every climbin' wave before the trawler's bow,
An' the black spawn swimmin' on the North Sea ground.

Good luck to all our fightin' ships that rule the English sea;
Good luck to our brave merchantmen wherever they may be;
The sea it is their highway, an' we've got to sweep it free
For the ships passin' over on the North Sea ground.

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the sea wind's crying;
"Time an' time to go where the herrin' gulls are flyin';"
An' down below the stormy seas the dead men lyin',
Oh, the dead lying quiet on the North Sea ground!

MISS C. FOX SMITH.
March 24, 1915.

The Ballad of the Resurrection Packet

Oh, she's in from the deep water, she's safe in port once more,
With shot 'oles in the funnel which were not there before;
Yes, she's 'ome, dearie, 'ome, an' we've 'alf the sea inside!
Ought to 'ave sunk, but she couldn't if she tried.

An' it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day,
Rollin' both rails under in the old sweet way,
Freezin' in the foul weather, fryin' in the fine,
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"

If she'd been built for sinkin' she'd have done it long ago;
She's tried her best in every sea an' all the winds that blow,
In hurricanes at Galveston, pamperos off the Plate,
An' icy Cape 'Orn snorters which freeze you while you wait.

She's been ashore at Vallipo, Algoa Bay likewise,
She's broke her screw-shaft off Cape Race an' stove 'er bows in ice,
She's lost 'er deck-load overboard an' 'alf 'er bulwarks too,
An' she's come in with fire aboard, smokin' like a flue.

But it's "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she gets there just the same,
Reekin', leakin', 'alf a wreck, scarred an' stove an' lame;
Patch 'er up with putty, lads, tie 'er up with twine,
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"

A bit west the Scillies the sky was stormy red,
"To-night we'll lift Saint Agnes Light if all goes well," we said,
But we met a slinkin' submarine as dark was comin' down,
An' she ripped our rotten plates away an' left us there to drown.

A bit west the Scillies we thought her sure to sink,
There was 'alf a gale blowin', the sky was black as ink,
The seas begun to mount an' the wind begun to thunder,
An' every wave that come, oh, we thought 'twould roll 'er under.

But it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, an' she'll get there after all,
Steamin' when she can steam, an' when she can't she'll crawl;
This year, next year--rain or storm or shine--
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"

We thought about the bulk-'eads--we wondered if they'd last,
An' the cook 'e started groanin' an' repentin' of the past;
But thinkin' an' groanin', oh, they wouldn't shift the water,
So we got the pumps a-workin' same as British seamen oughter.

If she'd been a crack liner she'd 'ave gone like a stone,
An' why she didn't sink is a thing as can't be known;
Our arms was made of lead, our backs was split with achin',
But we pumped 'er into port just before the day was breakin'!

For it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day,--
Don't you 'ear the pumps a-clankin' in the old sweet way?--
This year, next year--rain or storm or shine--
She's the resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"

MISS C. FOX SMITH.
Nov. 3, 1915.

The Figure-Head

A SALT SEA YARN.

There was an ancient carver that carved of a saint,
But the parson wouldn't have it, so he took a pot of paint
And changed its angel garment for a dashing soldier rig,
And said it was a figure-head and sold it to a brig.

The brig hauled her mainsail to an off-shore draught,
Then she shook her snowy royals and the Scillies went abaft;
And cloudy with her canvas she ran before the Trade
Till she got to the Equator, where she struck a merrymaid.

A string of pearls and conches were all of her togs,
But the flying-fish and porpoises they followed her like dogs;
She had a voice of silver and lips of coral red,
She climbed the dolphin-striker and kissed the figure-head.

Then every starry evening she'd swim in the foam
About the bows, a-singing like a nightingale at Home;
She'd call to him and sing to him as sweetly as a bird,
But the wooden-headed effigy he never said a word.

And every starry evening in the Doldrum calms
She'd wriggle up the bobstay and throw her tender arms
About his scarlet shoulders and fondle him and cry
And stroke his curly whiskers, but he never winked an eye.

She couldn't get an answer to her tears or moans,
So she went and told her daddy, told the ancient Davy Jones;
Old Davy damned his eyesight and puzzled of his wits,
Then whistled up his hurricanes and tore the brig to bits.

Down on the ocean-bed, green fathoms deep,
Where the wrecks lie rotting and great sea-serpents creep,
In a gleaming grotto all built of sailors' bones,
Sits the handsome figure-head, listening to Miss Jones.

Songs o' love she sings him the livelong day,
And she hangs upon his bosom and sobs the night away,
But he never, never answers, for beneath his soldier paint
The wooden-headed lunatic still thinks that he's a saint.

CROSBIE GARSTIN.
July 26, 1916.

The Little Ships

["The small steamer ---- struck a mine yesterday and sank. The crew perished."--Daily Paper.]

Who to the deep in ships go down
Great marvels do behold,
But comes the day when some must drown
In the grey sea and cold.
For galleons lost great bells do toll,
But now must we implore
God's ear for sunken Little Ships
Who are not heard of more.

When ships of war put out to sea
They go with guns and mail,
That so the chance may equal be
Should foemen them assail;
But Little Ships men's errands run
And are not clad for strife;
God's mercy then on Little Ships
Who cannot fight for life.

To warm and cure, to clothe and feed,
They stoutly put to sea,
And since that men of them had need
Made light of jeopardy;
Each in her hour her fate did meet
Nor flinched nor made outcry;
God's love be with these Little Ships
Who could not choose but die.

To friar and nun, and every one
Who lives to save and tend,
Sisters were these whose work is done
And cometh thus to end;
Full well they knew what risk they ran
But still were strong to give;
God's grace for all the Little Ships
Who died that men might live.