They are not tame enough to stroke;
I greatly dread these grim-eyed folk.

Lieutenants of the R.N.V.
Were born and bred on land, not sea,
And ancient mariners like me
With sly grimace and winks of glee
Would watch them when the winds blew free,
Or send them down a cup of tea.
But soon their deeds became their plea
For standing with the Big Navee
In equal fame and dignity:
While even Subs. R.N. agree
They're better than they used to be,
These Looties of the R.N.V.

Sub-Loots are nothing if not sports;
The nicest girls in all the ports
Declare they are the best of sorts
And useful on the tennis-courts.
In gun-rooms, where their rank resorts,
They bandy quips and shrewd retorts,
And swig champagne, not pints but quarts.
I said at first that they were sports.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Headmaster_ (_interviewing new boy_). "AT WHAT SCHOOL
WERE YOU LAST, MY BOY?"