MINES
What are ye trawlin' for, Lucky Jack,
Out on the old North Sea?
An' why is yer trawler all greyish black,
As glum as a T.B.D.?
An' what o' the hundreds o' East Coast chaps
On trawlers made likewise glum?
They goes somewhere ... comes home—well, p'raps.
There's one, now an' then, don't come.
But never a fish do they land—an' fish
Is fetchin' a 'normous price!...
What are ye trawlin' for, Lucky Jack,
Wi' yer decks all slush an' ice?
“We're trawlin' from dawnin' till dusk, Old Sam;
We're doin' a roarin' trade—
(The roarin', ye'd hear it ten mile, by Jam!)
In eggs which the Huns ha' laid.
“We're poachin' them eggs, as a poet might say—
Slow work, but excitin', too,
For maybe ye poaches yer egg o.k.,
An' maybe it scrambles you!
“I'm gettin' half-used to beholdin' 'em bust,
But wishin' to God they was done,
For ev'ry one 'minds me o' good ships lost,
Good chaps as did harm to none...”
How would ye punish 'em, Lucky Jack,
As ordered such things to be?
How would ye serve 'em as brought such wrack
An' grief on the old North Sea?
“Why, Sam, I would give 'em a beautiful ship
An' put 'em on board, well found.
Ten thousand mile I would make their trip,
An' they should be home'ard bound.
“An' ev'ry mile would be sowed wi' mines—
Leastways, they'd be warned 'twas so...
Think I would waste on the blushin' swines
A ha'penny squib?—hell, no!
“So they'd sail an' sail till... Excuse me, Sam,
'Tis seldom I really smiles....”
But, Jack, are ye daft? If 'twas all a sham
'Bout the mines, what'd matter the miles?
They'd all win home!... “Which I'll not deny—
If a wheel knows how to steer!
But ten thousand mile on a minefield—Why,
They'd all ha' died—mad—o' fear!”