POE TRY.
THE ABLE SEAMAN.
"A.B." the papers call him, with a number, But he has a name, the same as you and I, And if you're told he's ornamental lumber Or lives abroad for pleasure trips, just try To do his work awhile; swab down the decks, Clean the big guns, and hose the cable through; You'll find enough in one day's job to vex Your ornamental soul and body too.
He has points that any landsman in creation
Might be proud of; order, muscle, pluck, and grit; Whether home or on some reeking foreign station 'He can splice and sing,.keep watch (and smoke a bit); He will spot a liner miles away, and tell Her tonnage, long before you know she's there, And he's none the worse because when all goes well He gives himself the pleasure of a swear.
Facing the wind and spume on some far ocean With shaggy, sheltering eyebrows, shining eyes, He owns to no superfluous emotion But squares his shoulders as the wet decks rise, Stands to the gale, and feels the engines beat Their confident pulsations down below, Sees the signal "Full Ahead" pass down the fleet, Leaves the reckoning to those who run the show.
Up the tideway, through the morning splendours Comes the great grey warship, home at last;
Ropes are hauled to the busy, powerful tenders—
Round she swings, till the iron dock-gates are passed ... .
Trains are full, the smiling porters fagged—
Jack's off home with lots of cash to spend; Well, when all the grumbling tongues have wagged Jack, old chap, we're proud of you, no end !
WILFRID L. RANDELL.
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