Cod ' s Roe
(After Sir Henry Newbolt) Cod, they're in the ocean, but a thousand miles away, (Skipper, are you fishing down below?) Swimming round a gunboat in some Icelandic bay, And praying British trawlers will soon go. British fishing families in Grimsby and in Hull, Dependent on a catch that's getting low, With the warp-wire cutting, and no fish for gutting, The trawlermen are fighting 'gainst a bitter arctic blow.
Ireland is so tiny, and a thousand miles away, (Captain, have you cut the trawls below?) British sporting instincts are thus brought into play, To catch the fish seems really rather low.
After all she's only claimed a chunk of the high seas, With limits of two hundred miles or sois..
With her gunboats bashing, trawler gear a-smashing, Gallant little Iceland seeks peace as all men know.
Let's push out our limits to a thousand miles away, (Skipper, are you trawling down below?) Naturally doing it in just the nicest way, Preventing Nato allies saying 'No'.
Like this we'd bring poor Iceland within our friendly net.
And let her fish wherever she would go.
With both;sides a-wishing to see their trawlers fishing, We'd better fish together for the golden cod's roe.
Basil Charles
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