To the R.N.V.R.
IN the days when the Press Gang went out on its beat
To trap the unwary to serve in the Fleet,
So fine was its mesh, and so craftily set
That all sorts of fishes were trapped in the net,
Transmuted afloat by a magical touch
Into smart upper-yard men, and honoured as such.
By a just dispensation a Ship of the Line
Bestowed, in return, a transfusion of brine,
Which their offspring revealed in a love for the sea
So that butchers and bakers, et cetera, should be
Entitled, whatever their status or caste,
To shiver their timbers with those of the past.
And so it fell out that the passage of years
Gave birth to a body of sea volunteers,
From office and workshop, from garden and bench,
Endowed with a fervour which nothing could quench,
Eschewing their evenings at theatre or bar,
They started creating the R.N.V.R.
Unsung and unheeded, a breed of their own,
Whom the Press (times have changed) left severely alone,
They recruited and drilled, and rejoiced at the sight
When the "President's" school overflowed every night,
Though their growth was unnoticed, their roots, all unseen,
Were anchored deep down where their fathers' had been.
So the dreamers composing this Nautical Guild
Laid the keel, well and true, on which others could build
When the war drums were rolling; and so as desired
Was fashioned the craft which their vision inspired,
And the old upper-yard men smiled down from afar
As their scions flocked in to the R.N.V.R.
From City and Market, from Village and Town,
From hillside and paddock they came to their own;
'Twixt Royals and Radar the gulf's pretty wide
But the R.N.V.R. took it well in their stride,
Leaving E boats in doubt as they went to their fate
If the stripes of their victors were wavy or Straight!
Threadneedle Street experts, regardless of rank,
Would steer for the Dogger instead of the Bank,
And farmers, declaring that tractors were vain,
Were all for white horses when ploughing the main,
While Members of Parliament, fresh from the shore,
Fell in for Divisions as never before!
And when it was over, for such are the rules,
They all recommissioned their benches and stools,
But the salt in their blood set their hopes running high
That their trades would keep better and sweeter thereby,
For they'd learned, if their wagons they'd hitch to a star,
No tow rope's so strong as the R.N.V.R.
IN the days when the Press Gang went out on its beat
To trap the unwary to serve in the Fleet,
So fine was its mesh, and so craftily set
That all sorts of fishes were trapped in the net, ...
