The Lord be thanked, it's my relief--Cheer up, old sport, it's clean; No, just enough to wash your face--you could hardly call it green; A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! TO FRITZ TO FRITZ. I wish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea-- I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me; There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz, But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits. I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron Cross By strafing sail and cargo ships--but don't you feel the loss Of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war, And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar? When you know that it's a case of "May the fish run good and true," For if they don't it's ten to one it's R.I.P. for you? Although perhaps you can't be blamed--your motives may be pure-- You're rather new to submarines--in fact, an amateur; But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done, And leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother Hun. You wouldn't like the job, my lad--the motors turning slow, You wouldn't like the winter-time--storm and wind and snow; You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz--unless your faith is strong-- Up and down on the long patrol--How long, O Lord, how long? We don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there, Up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the E-boat's prayer: "Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky, And help our eyes at the periscope as the High Sea Fleet goes by." TO THE SCOTTISH REGIMENTS TO THE SCOTTISH REGIMENTS. _Land of sorrow--war and weeping, Granite rock and falling snow, Where Romance is never sleeping, Where the fires of freedom glow._ Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost, Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame; From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost Ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name? While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul, The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall-- From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North-- "_Amboglanna has sent for aid, For the heather is bright with targe and blade Away to the silvery Forth._" When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe That filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below, When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight-- "_Shoulder to shoulder around the King, Hear the Claymore whistle and sing Our funeral song to-night._"