[Mr. Punch means no disrespect to H.M.S. _President_, which, being
moored in the Thames off Bouverie Street, he has always looked upon
as his guardship, but he has often wondered what would happen if only
a few thousands of the officers and men borne on her books were to
issue from the Admiralty and elsewhere--but especially from the
Admiralty--and go on board their ship; hence the disquieting dream
that follows.]
It was eighteen bells in the larboard watch with
a neap-tide running free,
And a gale blew out of the Ludgate Hills when
the _President_ put to sea;
An old mule came down Bouverie Street to give
her a helping hand,
And I didn't think much of the ship as such, but
the crew was something grand.
The bo'sun stood on a Hoxton bus and blew the
Luncheon Call,
And the ship's crew came from the four wide
winds, but chiefly from Whitehall;
They came like the sand on a wind-swept strand,
like shots from a Maxim gun,
And the old mule stood with the tow-rope on and
said, "It can't be done."
With a glitter of wiggly braid they came, with a
clatter of forms and files,
The little A.P.'s they swarmed like bees, the
Commodores stretched for miles;
Post-Captains came with hats in flame, and
Admirals by the ell,
And which of the lot was the biggest pot there
was never a man could tell.
They choked the staggering quarter-deck and did
the thing no good;
They hung like tars on the mizzen-spars (or those
of the crowd that could);
Far out of view still streamed the queue when the
moke said, "Well, I'm blowed
If I'll compete with the 'ole damn Fleet," and he
pushed off down the road.
And the great ship she sailed after him, though
the Lord knows how she did,
With her gunwales getting a terrible wetting and
a brace of her stern sheets hid,
When up and spoke a sailor-bloke and he said,
"It strikes me queer,
And I've sailed the sea in the R.N.V. this five-and
forty year;
"But a ship as can't 'old 'arf 'er crew, why, what
sort of a ship is 'er?
And oo's in charge of the pore old barge if dangers
do occur?
And I says to you, I says, "'Eave to, until this
point's agreed';"
And some said, "Why?" and the rest, "Ay,
ay," but the mule he paid no heed.
So the old beast hauled and the Admirals bawled
and the crew they fought like cats,
And the ship went dropping along past Wapping
and down by the Plumstead Flats;
But the rest of the horde that wasn't aboard they
trotted along the bank,
Or jumped like frogs from the Isle of Dogs, or
fell in the stream and sank.
But while they went by the coast of Kent up spoke
an aged tar--
"A joke's a joke, but this 'ere moke is going a bit
too far;
I can tell by the motion we're nearing the ocean--and
_that's_ too far for me;"
But just as he spoke the tow-rope broke and the
ship sailed out to sea.
And somewhere out on the deep, no doubt, they
probe the problems through
Of who's in charge of the poor old barge and what
they ought to do;
And the great files flash and the dockets crash and
the ink-wells smoke like sin,
But many a U-boat tells the tale how the _President_
did her in.
For many have tried to pierce her hide and flung
torpedoes at her,
But the vessel, they found, was barraged round
with a mile of paper matter;
The whole sea swarms with Office Forms and the
U-boats stick like glue,
So nothing can touch the _President_ much, for
nothing at all gets through.
* * * *
But never, alack, will the ship come back, for the
_President_ she's stuck too.
A. P. HERBERT.
May 15, 1918.