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 need n't be pointin’ guns at‘ im —‘ e's one o’ the R. F. C.
We do n'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 was n't afraid o’ five.”