Читать книгу On Patrol - Bower John Graham - Страница 7

AS we were running the Channel along, with a rising wind abeam,

Steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam,

I'd just come up, relieving Bill, to look for Fritz again,

When I turns to the Skipper an', "Sir," I says, "I 'ears an aeroplane."

An' sure enough, from out o' the clouds astern, we seed 'im come,

An' down the wind the engine sang with a reg'lar oarin' 'um.

The Skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me,

"We needn't be pointin' guns at 'im – 'e's one o' the R.F.C.

We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines,

From here to France an' back again – except for submarines."

An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believe

It's a fightin' bus – good luck to them – an' lots of London leave."

An' jolly good luck, says I, says I,

To you that's overhead;

An' may you never go dry, go dry,

Or want for a decent bed.

With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I,

Of Red an' White an' Blue —

Oh, may the bullets go by, go by,

An' not be findin' you.

Astonishing luck, says I, says I,

To you an' yer aeroplane;

An' if it's yer joss to die, to die,

When you go back again —

May the enemy say as you drop below,

An' you start your final dive:

"Three of us left to see him go,

An' it must be nice for him to know,

That wasn't afraid o' five."