Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof-- I have told the naked stars the grief of man. Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof-- I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran. My bray ye may not alter nor mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? With my "_Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!_" [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] But the word--the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die. The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre-- [O the blue below the little fisher-huts!] That the Stealer stooping beach ward filled with fire, Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! By the wisdom of the centuries I speak-- To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth-- I, the joy of life unquestioned--I, the Greek-- I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth! With my "_Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!_" [What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?] So I draw the world together link by link: Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back! "THE LINER SHE'S A LADY." The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds-- The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs; But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun', They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down! _Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old-- Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!_ The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, An' if she meets an accident they call it sore disgrace: The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by, But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die. The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man! They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can. The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide! 'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride. The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade. The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, but if we wasn't 'ere, 'E wouldn't have to fight at all for 'ome an' friends so dear. _'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old-- 'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!_