ANCHOR SONG

Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
And we're off to Mother Carey

(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),

Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

THE LOST LEGION

(1895)

HERE'S a Legion that never was 'listed,
That carries no colours or crest,
But, split in a thousand detachments,
Is breaking the road for the rest.

Our fathers they left us their blessing

They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed; But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes

To go and find out and be damned

(Dear boys!),

To go and get shot and be damned.

So some of us chivy the slaver,

And some of us cherish the black,
And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast,
And some on-the Wallaby track:

And some of us drift to Sarawak,
And some of us drift up The Fly,
And some share our tucker with tigers,
And some with the gentle Masai
(Dear boys!),

Take tea with the giddy Masai.

We've painted The Islands vermilion,
We've pearled on half-shares in the Bay,
We've shouted on seven-ounce nuggets,
We've starved on a Seedeeboy's pay;

THE LOST LEGION

We've laughed at the world as we found it,-
Its women and cities and men-

From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum
To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben
(Dear boys!),

We've a little account with Loben.

The ends o' the Earth were our portion,
The ocean at large was our share.
There was never a skirmish to windward
But the Leaderless Legion was there:
Yes, somehow and somewhere and always
We were first when the trouble began,
From a lottery-row in Manila,

To an I. D. B. race on the Pan

(Dear boys!),

With the Mounted Police on the Pan.

We preach in advance of the Army,
We skirmish ahead of the Church,

With never a gunboat to help us

When we're scuppered and left in the lurch.

But we know as the cartridges finish,

And we're filed on our last little shelves,

That the Legion that never was 'listed
Will send us as good as ourselves
(Good men!),

Five hundred as good as ourselves.

Then a health (we must drink it in whispers),

To our wholly unauthorised horde

To the line of our dusty foreloopers,

The Gentlemen Rovers abroad

Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter,

For the steamer won't wait for the train, And the Legion that never was 'listed Goes back into quarters again!

'Regards!

Goes back under canvas again.

Hurrah!

The swag and the billy again.

Here's how!

The trail and the packhorse again.

Salue!

The trek and the lager again.

T

THE SEA-WIFE

(1893)

HERE dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
And a wealthy wife is she;

She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
And casts them over sea.

And some are drowned in deep water,
And some in sight o' shore,

And word goes back to the weary wife
And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear,
Or hearth or garth or bield,

She willed her sons to the white harvest,
And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
To ride the horse of tree,

And syne her sons come back again
Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again

With little into their hands,

But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men

In the new and naked lands;