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 doesn'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 crew. 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_ TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath. So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end--perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul. Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain? Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward? Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer--this the only fear You let draw near.