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SONGS FOR BOYHOOD.
"Ah, admiral, never forget
When all bow before you, With a love like the love of your seamen None will adore you ! Why, say but the word, and, ere homeward our
footsteps we turn, Aloft on the tips of our fingers a king you are borne!"
A Martigan,* mending his nets
One eve, made this ditty. Our admiral bid us farewell, And sought the great city. Were they wroth with his glory up there at the
court ? Who can say ? But we saw our beloved commander no more from that day!
We had cruised about on Sunday; But about six bells on Monday,
When as smooth as any mirror was the wa�ter, Right on the horizon Rose a cloud as black as pizon:
'Twas the foe a-steamin' down upon our quar�ter.
'Twas all as still as death, There was not a single breath,
But our adm'ral wore a smile upon his cheek; The foe was on our larboard, But right away our starboard
Was a werry little tiny narrer streak.
A-chucklin' werry sly, And a-winkin' of his eye,
Our admiral gave orders for to run; And the enemy gave chase, For the Germans, as a race,
Have a preference for fighting ten to one.
At seven we felt a whiff;
At eight it blowed right stiff;
At nine it was blowing half a gale; But at ten the waves ran higher Than St. Paul's Cathedral spire,
And my language to describe the same do fail.
We kept a 'lectric light A-burning all the night;
But on Tuesday, in the morning, about three, My gunner up and spoke, " Darn mc, if any smoke
Is comin' from their chimney-pots," says he.
Just then we heard a shout, And our admiral sung out,
"Send the signal up to wear about and close 1" Then fore and aft we ran ; To his post stood every man;
And louder than the storm our cheers arose.
We neared them, and took aim, And the word to fire came,
And our volley down the line of battle roared; But the German answered not� Not a solitary shot�
But her ensign fluttered down by the board.
We was speechless pretty nigh, As we couldn't make out for whv
THE BATTLE OF DORKING.
I served as gunner's mate When I was twenty-eight�
That's fifty anno-dominis ago; And our ship, which was the Spanker, Were a-riding at her anchor,
One Sunday night in August, you must know.
I were chewing of a quid, Which I ordinary did
O' Sundays, for I sort o' think it's right, When our gunner�Ben's his name� Did quite suddenly exclaim,
And his exclamation were, " Blow me tight!"
Says he, " My jolly mates, This here Lloyd's paper states
As we're goin' to fight them German furrineers!" Whereupon we tars, in spite Of itsi bein' Sunday night,
Stood up and gave three hearty British cheers.
Well, we sailed away to meet This famous German fleet,
Consarnin' which there'd been no end o' jaw; For in six weeks they had planned, And built, and launched, and manned
The finest fleet a nation ever saw.
* An inhabitant of Martigues, a quaint Provencal fishing-town.�Ed.