Keeping the Seas

Dark, dark, lay the drifters, against the red west, As they shot their long meshes of steel overside; And the oily green waters were rocking to rest When Kilmeny went out, at the turn of the tide. And nobody knew where that lassie would roam, For the magic that called her was tapping unseen. It was well nigh a week ere Kilmeny came home, And nobody knew hwere Kilmeny had been. She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best, And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde, And a secret her skipper had never confessed, Not even at dawn, to his newly wed bride; And a wireless that whispered above like a gnome, The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin. O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home, But nobody knew where Kilmeny had been. It was dark when Kilmeny came home from her quest, With her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died; But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast; And "Well done,Kilmeny!" the admiral cried. Now at sixty-four fathom a conger may come, And nose at the bones of a drowned submarine; But late in the evening Kilmeny came home, And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been. There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam, Though they sing all night to old England, their queen, Late, late in the evening Kilmeny came home, And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

Alfred Noyes

Dawn off the Foreland -- the young flood making Jumbled and short and steep -- Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking -- Awkward water to sweep. "Mines reported in the fairway, Warn all traffic and detain. Sent up Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain." Noon off the Foreland -- the first ebb making Lumpy and strong in the bight. Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking And the jackdaws wild with fright. "Mines located in the fairway, Boats now working up the chain, Sweepers -- Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain." Dusk off the Foreland -- the last light going And the traffic crowding through, And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing Heading the whole review! "Sweep completed in the fairway, No more mines remain. Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."

Rudyard Kipling

You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"? You, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought, -- What you call freedom, men call piracy! Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head, -- A dark memorial of the dead, -- Women and children whom you left to drown. Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee -- Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea -- To safeguard law and freedom on the deep! In nobler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," And Honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.

Henry van Dyke February 11, 1917

["If lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do." -- Rudyard Kipling.]

They had hot scent across the spumy sea, Gehenna and her sister, swift Shaitan, That in the pack, with Goblin, Eblis ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free. The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lame and some died splendidly. But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn          And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born,          These hounds that England suckled at the birth.

Reginald McIntosh Cleveland

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say: "Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?" "Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also . . . From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao . . . With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Californ-i-o . . . "With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string . . . But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King! "And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) Or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking submarines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans! "A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be, For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!" . . . . . . . . . . . . There's not a port he doen't know from Melbourne to New York; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork . . . And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work! He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills With turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills . . . But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills. He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark -- and half of 'em are true! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! And . . . he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crue. A rough job or a tough job -- he's handled two or three -- And what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be . . . For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea!

C.Fox Smith

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