"You're the man to save us now, We look to you to win; Wot'd yer like? A rise o' pay? We'll give whatever you like to say, But bring the cargoes in." An' here we are in the danger zone, Wi' escorts all around, Destroyers a-racing to and fro--"We will show you the way to go, An' guide you safe an' sound." "An' did you cross in a comfy way, Or did you have to run? An' is the patch on your hull we see the mark of a bump in 'Ninety-three, Or the work of a German gun?" "We'll lead you now, and keep beside, An' call to all the Fleet, Clear the road and sweep us in--he carries a freight we need to win, A golden load of wheat." Yes, we're the hope of England now, And rank wi' the Navy too; An' all the papers speak us fair--"Nothing he will not lightly dare, Nothing he fears to do." "Be polite to Merchant Jack, Who brings you in the meat, For if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray, With never a bone to eat." But you can lay your papers down An' set your fears aside, For we will keep the ocean free--we o' the clean an' open sea-- To break the German pride. We won't go canny or strike for pay, Or say we need a rest; But you get on wi' the blinkin' War--an' not so much o' your strikes ashore, Or givin' the German best. A MAXIM A MAXIM. When the foe is pressing and the shells come down In a stream like maxim fire, When the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while, And they stamp on the last of the wire, When all along the line comes a whisper on the wind That you hear through the drumming of the guns: "They are through over there and the right is in the air, And there isn't any end to the Huns,"-- Then keep along a-shooting till you can't shoot more, And hit 'em with a shovel on the head. Don't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before, And a Hun'll never hurt you if he's dead. If you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail, If you're in a losing fight, Think a bit of Jonah in the belly of the whale, _'Cause-he-got-out-all-right_. THE CRISIS THE CRISIS. When the Spartan heroes tried To hold the broken gate, When--roaring like the rising tide-- The Persian horsemen charged and died In foaming waves of hate. When with armour hacked and torn They gripped their shields of brass, And hailed the gods that light the morn With battle-cry of hope forlorn, "We shall not let them pass." While they combed their hair for death Before the Persian line, They spoke awhile with easy breath, "What think ye the Athenian saith In Athens as they dine?"