AS we were running the Channel along, with a rising wind abeam, Steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam, I'd just come up, relieving Bill, to look for Fritz again, When I turns to the Skipper an', "Sir," I says, "I 'ears an aeroplane." An' sure enough, from out o' the clouds astern, we seed 'im come, An' down the wind the engine sang with a reg'lar oarin' 'um. The Skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me, "We needn't be pointin' guns at 'im--'e's one o' the R.F.C. We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines, From here to France an' back again--except for submarines." An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believe It's a fightin' bus--good luck to them--an' lots of London leave."
An' jolly good luck, says I, says I, To you that's overhead; An' may you never go dry, go dry, Or want for a decent bed. With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I, Of Red an' White an' Blue-- Oh, may the bullets go by, go by, An' not be findin' you. Astonishing luck, says I, says I, To you an' yer aeroplane; An' if it's yer joss to die, to die, When you go back again-- May the enemy say as you drop below, An' you start your final dive: "Three of us left to see him go, An' it must be nice for him to know, That wasn't afraid o' five."
When the breaking wavelets pass all sparkling to the sky, When beyond their crests we see the slender masts go by, When the glimpses alternate in bubbles white and green, And funnels grey against the sky show clear and fair between, When the word is passed along--"Stern and beam and bow"-- "Action stations fore and aft--all torpedoes now!" When the hissing tubes are still, as if with bated breath They waited for the word to loose the silver bolts of death, When the Watch beneath the Sea shall crown the great Desire, And hear the coughing rush of air that greets the word to fire, We'll ask for no advantage, Lord--but only we would pray That they may meet this boat of ours upon their outward way.
The moment we have waited long Is closing on us fast, When, cutting short the turret-gong, We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-song That hails the Day at last. The clashing rams come driving forth To meet the waiting shell, And far away to East and North Our targets steam to meet Thy Wrath, And dare the Gates of Hell. We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-day To stay the sinking sun-- But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray, And keep, O Lord, Thy mists away Until Thy work is done.