Yet still there fronts the morning light
Erect upon the crumbling wall
The mast of some great Amiral,
A trophy of the Portingall
In some forgotten fight.

The wind blows damp, the sun shines hot,
And ever on the Eastern shore,
Faint envoys from the far monsoon,
There in the gap the breakers croon
Their old unchanging rhythmic rune
(The noise is such a bore).

And week by week to climb that hill
The SULTAN sends some sweating knave
To scan the misty deep and hail
With hoisted nag the smoky trail
That means (hurrah!) the English mail,
So we still rule the wave!

Hurrah!--and yet what tales of woe!
My home exposed to Zeppelin shocks,
The long-drawn agony of strife,
The daily toll of precious life,
And a sad screed from my poor wife
Of babes with chicken-pox.

All this it brings--yet brings therewith
That which may help us bear and grin.
"Boy, when you hear the boat's keel scrunch,