Master came from hunting,
      Two silent comrades bore him;
   His eyes were dim, his face was white,
      The mare was led before him. 
’Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?’
   I held my lady’s ice-cold hand,
      They bore the hurdle past her;
   Why should they go so soft and slow? 
      It matters not to master.

H.M.S.  ‘FOUDROYANT’

[Being an humble address to Her Majesty’s Naval advisers, who sold Nelson’s old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]

Who says the Nation’s purse is lean,
   Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
   Are scheduled as a cash asset? 
If times are black and trade is slack,
   If coal and cotton fail at last,
We’ve something left to barter yet —
      Our glorious past.

There’s many a crypt in which lies hid
   The dust of statesman or of king;
There’s Shakespeare’s home to raise a bid,
   And Milton’s house its price would bring. 
What for the sword that Cromwell drew? 
   What for Prince Edward’s coat of mail? 
What for our Saxon Alfred’s tomb? 
      They’re all for sale!

And stone and marble may be sold
   Which serve no present daily need;
There’s Edward’s Windsor, labelled old,
   And Wolsey’s palace, guaranteed. 
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
   The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these?  Just price them, please,
      In British pounds.

You hucksters, have you still to learn,
   The things which money will not buy? 
Can you not read that, cold and stern
   As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
   For what concerns our island story? 
We sell our work—­perchance our lives,
      But not our glory.

Go barter to the knacker’s yard
   The steed that has outlived its time! 
Send hungry to the pauper ward
   The man who served you in his prime! 
But when you touch the Nation’s store,
   Be broad your mind and tight your grip. 
Take heed!  And bring us back once more
      Our Nelson’s ship.

And if no mooring can be found
   In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
   To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
   And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer. 
      There let her lie!

THE FARNSHIRE CUP

Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis
   And Sammy MacGregor on Flo,
Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,
   But he’d make a wooden horse go. 
There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea,
   And Chesterfield’s Son of the Sea;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
   They backed her at seven to three.