Marines. But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things
to stir,
Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a
bowchasér. Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the
pipeclayed hide,
And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on
the tide;
And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the
Queen's,
And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse
Marines. So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they
whipped their wheels like mad,
When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's
Bill, by Gad!" Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through
breach and brace,
And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test
takes place. Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed
free,
And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the
_P. M. G._ But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and
weft,
And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle
left
Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked
sheerstrake
And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of
Francis Drake.So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the
harbour-bar,
And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning
star. And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way
With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of
day;
For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern
main,
Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the
brand of Cain. And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo
Ever they tell the tale anew
Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_
They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
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