The Fringes of the Fleet

In Lowestoft a boat was laid,
    Mark well what I do say!
And she was built for the herring trade,
    But she has gone a-rovin', a-rovin', a-rovin',
    The Lord knows where!

They gave her Government coal to burn,
And a Q.F. gun at bow and stern,
And sent her out a-rovin', a-rovin', a-rovin',
The Lord knows where!

Her skipper was mate of a bucko ship
Which always killed one man per trip,
So he is used to rovin', rovin', rovin',
The Lord knows where!

Her mate was skipper of a chapel in Wales,
And so he fights in topper and tails -- 
Religi-ous tho' rovin', rovin', rovin',
The Lord knows where!

Her engineer is fifty-eight,
So he's prepared to meet his fate,
Which ain't unlikely rovin', rovin', rovin',
The Lord knows where!

Her leading-stoker's seventeen,
So he don't know what the judgments means
Unless he cops 'em rovin', rovin', rovin',
The Lord knows where!.

Her cook was chef in the Lost Dogs' Home,
    Mark well what I do say!
And I'm sorry for Fritz when they all come
    A-rovin', a-rovin', aroarin' and a-rovin',
    Round the North Sea rovin',
    The Lord knows where!

Be well assured that on our side
    Our challenged oceans fight,
Though headlong wind and leaping tide
    Make us their sport to-night
Through force of weather, not of war,
    In jeopardy we steer.
Then welcome Fate's discourtesy
    Whereby it shall appear
        How in all time of our distress
        As in our triumph too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew!

Be well assured, though wave and wind
    Have mightier blows in store,
That we who keep the watch assigned
    Must stand to it the more;
And as our streaming bows dismiss
    Each billow's baulked career,
Sing welcome Fate's discourtesy
    Whereby it is made clear
        How in all time of our distress
        As in our triumph too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew!

Be well assured that on our side
    Our challenged oceans fight,
Though headlong wind and leaping tide
    Make us their sport to-night
Through force of weather, not of war,
    In jeopardy we steer.
Then welcome Fate's discourtesy
    Whereby it shall appear
        How in all time of our distress
        As in our triumph too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew !

The ships await us above
    And ensnare us beneath.
We arise, we lie down, and we
    In the belly of Death.

The ships have a thousand eyes
    To mark where we come . . .
But the mirth of a seaport dies
    When our blow gets home. 

Dawn off the Foreland -- the young flood making
    Jumbled and short and steep -- 
Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking -- 
    Awkward water to sweep.
    "Mines reported in the fairway,
    "Warn all traffic and detain.
"'Sent up Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."

Noon off the Foreland -- the first ebb making
    Lumpy and strong in the bight.
Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking
    And the jackdaws wild with fright!
    "Mines located in the fairway,
    "Boats now working up the chain,
"Sweepers -- Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."

Dusk off the Foreland -- the last light going
    And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing
    Heading the whole review!
    "Sweep completed in the fairway.
    "No more mines remain.
"'Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain." 

I knows a town, an' it's a fine town,
And many a brig goes sailin' to its quay;
I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn,
An' a lass that's fair to see.
I knows a town, an' it's a fine town;
I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn--
But Oh my lass, an' Oh the gay gown,
Which I have seen my pretty in!

I knows a port, an' it's a good port,
An' many a brig is ridin' easy there;
I knows a home, an' it's a good home,
An' a lass that's sweet an' fair.
I knows a port, an' it's a good port,
I knows a home, an' it's a good home--
But Oh the pretty that is my sort,
What's wearyin' till I come!

I knows a day, an' it's a fine day,
The day a sailor man comes back to town;
I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide,
The tide that gets you quick to anchors down.
I knows a day, an' it's a fine day,
I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide--
And God help the lubber, I say,
What's stole the sailor man's bride!