HEH! ANCHOR SONG1 Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again! Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl. Down, set down your liquor and your girl For the wind has come to say: "You must take me while you may, If you'd go to Mother Carey (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!" Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o' that! Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear. Port-port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot, And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year! 1 Copyright, 1893, by D. Appleton & Co. Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargofree. And it's time to clear and quit When the hawser grips the bitt, So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her! Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall! Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy. Choking down our voices as we snatch the And it's blowing up for night, And she's dropping Light on Light, And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea. Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night. Sick she is and harbour-sick-O sick to clear the land! Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand! Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us, Whirling like a windmill through the dirty Till the last, last flicker goes (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea! THE LOST LEGION THERE'S a Legion that never was 'listed, But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes (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; 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, 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, |