Our gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian Isles Kept station where we now patrol so many weary miles: There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then, They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men." And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they saw From Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore. We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize, And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes; But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree: It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea, For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold, The sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled. Each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of white The prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight; And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skin Was passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in; Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew, And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you; Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line, We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine. The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum, And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum: "D'y 'ear those blank propellers, Bill--_the blinking female dog_-- That's Tirpitz in the 'Indenburg gone past us in the fog!" HANG ON HANG ON. Two o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow, But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho! So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon, Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon; And here it comes--she'll be much too late--yes, damn it, she's out of tune-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow, And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row; Then _rah-rah-rah_ on a rising note--my oath, they're racing now-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past, And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one--Blast--! Look-out, you fool. Hang on! In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew-- "I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you, And you'd better be quick and lift again--she won't, she's diving through"-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on!