Spread the topgallants-oh, lay them out l.u.s.tily!

What though it darken o'er Netherby Combe?

'Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily- On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

'Bo'sun, O Bo'sun, just see the long slope of it!

Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.

Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?

Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?'

'Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily!

Aye, as you say, sir, they're little ones still; One long reach should open it readily, Round by St. Helens and under the hill.

'The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise, Their mothers to them-and to us it's our wives.

I've sailed forty years, and-By G.o.d it's upon us!

Down royals, Down top'sles, down, down, for your lives!'

A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it, Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!

A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it, A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.

It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness; The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.

But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your kindness, Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!

Give help to the women who wait by the water, Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.

Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter, 'Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.'

THE INNER ROOM

It is mine-the little chamber, Mine alone.

I had it from my forbears Years agone.

Yet within its walls I see A most motley company, And they one and all claim me As their own.

There's one who is a soldier Bluff and keen; Single-minded, heavy-fisted, Rude of mien.

He would gain a purse or stake it, He would win a heart or break it, He would give a life or take it, Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest Still schism-whole; He loves the censer-reek And organ-roll.

He has leanings to the mystic, Sacramental, eucharistic; And dim yearnings altruistic Thrill his soul.

There's another who with doubts Is overcast; I think him younger brother To the last.

Walking wary stride by stride, Peering forwards anxious-eyed, Since he learned to doubt his guide In the past.

And 'mid them all, alert, But somewhat cowed, There sits a stark-faced fellow, Beetle-browed, Whose black soul shrinks away From a lawyer-ridden day, And has thoughts he dare not say Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting, Grim as doom, In the dim ill-boding shadow Of my room.

Darkling figures, stern or quaint, Now a savage, now a saint, Showing fitfully and faint Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense, There may be Many-very many-more Than I see.

They are sitting day and night Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; And they wrangle and they fight Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win, All is o'er!

If the priest should gain his will I doubt no more!

But if each shall have his day, I shall swing and I shall sway In the same old weary way As before.

THE IRISH COLONEL

Said the king to the colonel, 'The complaints are eternal, That you Irish give more trouble Than any other corps.'

Said the colonel to the king, 'This complaint is no new thing, For your foemen, sire, have made it A hundred times before.'

THE BLIND ARCHER

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance, Shooting down at the ballroom floor; He hit an old chaperone watching the dance, And oh! but he wounded her sore.

'Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?'

No word would he say, But he flew on his way, For the little boy's busy, and how could he stay?

Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport At the soberest club in Pall Mall; He winged an old veteran drinking his port, And down that old veteran fell.

'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

This cannot be right!

It's ludicrous quite!'

But it's no use to argue, for Love's out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart Was planning a celibate vow; But the boy's random arrow has sunk in his heart, And the cell is an empty one now.

'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

He is not for you, He has duties to do.'

'But I _am_ his duty,' quoth Love as he flew.

The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped For a queen without rival or peer.

But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.

'Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

What an impudent thing To make game of a king!'

'But _I'm_ a king also,' cried Love on the wing.

Little boy Love grew pettish one day; 'If you keep on complaining,' he swore, 'I'll pack both my bow and my quiver away, And so I shall plague you no more.'

'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!