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“The British fleet bombarded Skarvika and Semuntoltos, south of Orfano.  Marshall’s 7, Martyn’s 2.  Wakefield (3), Stone (2), Cripps, and Turbyfield scored for the winners.”—­Gloucestershire Echo.

We like this idea of recording the names of the successful marksmen at once, without waiting for the formal despatches.

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A DREAM SHIP.

  Oh I wish I had a clipper ship with carvings on her counter,
    With lanterns on her poop-rail of beaten copper wrought;
  I would dress her like a lady in the whitest cloth and mount her
    With a long bow-chasing swivel and a gun at every port.

  I would sign me on a master who had solved MERCATOR’S riddle,
    A nigger cook with earrings who neither chewed nor drank,
  Who wore a red bandanna and was handy on the fiddle,
    I would take a piping bos’un and a cabin-boy to spank.

Then some fine Summer morning when the Falmouth cocks were crowing
I would set my capstan spinning to the chanting of all hands,
And the milkmaids on the uplands would lament to see me going
As I beat for open Channel and away to foreign lands,

Singing—­

Fare ye well, O lady mine,
Fare ye well, my pretty one,
For the anchor’s at the cat-head and the voyage is begun,
The wind is in the mainsail, we’re slipping from the land
Hull-down with all sail making, close-hauled with the white-tops breaking,
Bound for the Rio Grande. 
Fare ye well!

With the flying-fish around us and a porpoise school before us,
Full crowded under royals to the south’ard we would sweep;
We would hear the bull whales blowing and the mermaids sing in chorus,
And perhaps the white seal mummies hum their chubby calves to sleep.

We would see the hot towns paddling in the surf of Spanish waters,
And prowl beneath dim balconies and twang discreet guitars,
And sigh our adoration to Don Juan’s lovely daughters
Till they lifted their mantillas and their dark eyes shone like stars.

  We would cruise by fairy islands where the gaudy parrot screeches
    And the turtle in his soup-tureen floats basking in the calms;
  We would see the fire-flies winking in the bush above the beaches
    And a moon of honey yellow drifting up behind the palms.

  We would crown ourselves with garlands and tread a frolic measure
    With the nut-brown island beauties in the firelight by the huts;
  We would give them rum and kisses; we would hunt for pirate treasure,
    And bombard the apes with pebbles in exchange for coco-nuts.

When we wearied of our wand’rings ’neath the blazing Southern heaven
And dreamed of Kentish orchards fragrant-scented after rain,
Of the cream there is in Cornwall and the cider brewed in Devon,
We would crowd our yards with canvas and sweep foaming home again,