* * * * *

THE NORTH ATLANTIC TRADE.

  As I was walking beside the docks I met a pal o’ mine
  I sailed with once on the Colonies run in Thomson’s Blue Star Line;
  Said I, “What cheer—­what brings you here?” “Why, ’aven’t you ’eard?”
                he said;
  “I’m under the Windsor ’ouse-flag now in the North Atlantic trade. 
  We sweep a bit an’ we fight a bit—­an’ that’s what we like the best—­
  But a towin’ job or a salvage job, they all go in with the rest;
  When we aren’t too busy upsettin’ old Fritz an’ ’is frightfulness
                blockade,
  A bit of all sorts don’t come amiss in the North Atlantic trade.”

  “And how does old Atlantic look?” “Oh, round an’ about the same;
  ’E ’asn’t seemed to alter a lot since I’ve been in the game;
  ’E’s about as big as ‘e always was, an’ ’e’s pretty well just as wet
  (Or, if there’s some parts anyway dry, well, I ’aven’t struck none
                yet!),
  There’s the same old bust-up, same old mess, when a green sea breaks
                inboard,
  An’ the equinoctials roarin’ by the same as they’ve always roared,
  An’ the West Wind playin’ the same old larks ’e’s been at since the
                world was made—­
  They’ve a peach of a time, ’ave sailormen, in the North Atlantic
                trade.”

  “And who’s your skipper, and what is he like?” “Oh, well, if you want
                to know. 
  I’m sailin’ under a hard-case mate as I sailed with years ago;
  ‘E’s big an’ bucko an’ full o’ beans, the same as ’e used to be
  When I knowed ’im last in the windbag days when first I followed the
                sea. 
  ‘E was worth two men at the lee fore brace, an’ three at the bunt of a
                sail;
  ’E’d a voice you could ’ear to the royal-yards in the teeth of a Cape
                ’Orn gale;
  But now ‘e’s a full-blown lootenant an’ wears the twisted braid,
  Commandin’ one of ’is Majesty’s ships in the North Atlantic trade.”

  “And what is the ship you’re sailin’ in?” “Oh, she’s a bit of a
                terror—­
  She ain’t no bloomin’ levvyathan, an’ that’s no fatal error! 
  She scoops the seas like a gravy-spoon when the gales are up an’
                blowin’,
  But Fritz ’e loves ’er above a bit when ‘er fightin’ fangs are
                showin’. 
  The liners go their stately way an’ the cruisers take their ease,
  But where would they be if it wasn’t for us, with the water up to our
                knees? 
  We’re wadin’ when their soles are wet, we’re swimmin’ when they wade,
  For I tell you small craft gets it a treat in the North Atlantic
                trade!”