Now the culprit he liked, as a tall captain can A Titan subordinate and true _sailor-man;_ And frequent he’d shown it—no worded advance, But flattering the Finn with a well-timed glance. But what of that now? In the martinet-mien Read the _Articles of War_, heed the naval routine; While, cut to the heart a dishonor there to win, Restored to his senses, stood the Anak Finn; In racked self-control the squeezed tears peeping, Scalding the eye with repressed inkeeping. Discipline must be; the scourge is deemed due. But ah for the sickening and strange heart- benumbing, Compassionate abasement in shipmates that view; Such a grand champion shamed there succumbing! “Brown, tie him up.”—The cord he brooked: How else?—his arms spread apart—never threaping; No, never he flinched, never sideways he looked, Peeled to the waistband, the marble flesh creeping, Lashed by the sleet the officious winds urge. In function his fellows their fellowship merge— The twain standing nigh—the two boatswain’s mates, Sailors of his grade, ay, and brothers of his mess. With sharp thongs adroop the junior one awaits The word to uplift. “Untie him—so! Submission is enough, Man, you may go.” Then, promenading aft, brushing fat Purser Smart, “Flog? Never meant it—hadn’t any heart. Degrade that tall fellow? “—Such, wife, was he, Old Captain Turret, who the brave wine could stow. Magnanimous, you think?—But what does Dick see? Apron to your eye! Why, never fell a blow; Cheer up, old wifie, ’t was a long time ago. But where’s that sore one, crabbed and-severe, Lieutenant Lon Lumbago, an arch scrutineer? Call the roll to-day, would he answer—_Here!_ When the _Blixum’s_ fellows to quarters mustered How he’d lurch along the lane of gun-crews clustered, Testy as touchwood, to pry and to peer. Jerking his sword underneath larboard arm, He ground his worn grinders to keep himself calm. Composed in his nerves, from the fidgets set free, Tell, Sweet Wrinkles, alive now is he, In Paradise a parlor where the even tempers be? Where’s Commander All-a-Tanto? Where’s Orlop Bob singing up from below? Where’s Rhyming Ned? has he spun his last canto? Where’s Jewsharp Jim? Where’s Ringadoon Joe? Ah, for the music over and done, The band all dismissed save the droned trombone! Where’s Glenn o’ the gun-room, who loved Hot-Scotch— Glen, prompt and cool in a perilous watch? Where’s flaxen-haired Phil? a gray lieutenant? Or rubicund, flying a dignified pennant? But where sleeps his brother?—the cruise it was o’er, But ah, for death’s grip that welcomed him ashore! Where’s Sid, the cadet, so frank in his brag, Whose toast was audacious—“_Here’s Sid, and Sid’s flag!_” Like holiday-craft that have sunk unknown, May a lark of a lad go lonely down? Who takes the census under the sea? Can others like old ensigns be, Bunting I hoisted to flutter at the gaff— Rags in end that once were flags Gallant streaming from the staff?