1 The boats of Newhaven and Folkestone and Dover To Dieppe and Boulogne and to Calais cross over; And in each of those runs there is not a square yard Where the English and French haven't fought and fought hard! 2 If the ships that were sunk could be floated once more, They'd stretch like a raft from the shore to the shore, And we'd see, as we crossed, every pattern and plan Of ship that was built since sea-fighting began. 3 There'd be biremes and brigantines, cutters and sloops, Cogs, carracks and galleons with gay gilded poops-- Hoys, caravels, ketches, corvettes and the rest, As thick as regattas, from Ramsgate to Brest. 4 But the galleys of Caesar, the squadrons of Sluys, And Nelson's crack frigates are hid from our eyes, Where the high Seventy-fours of Napoleon's days Lie down with Deal luggers and French chasse-marées. 5 They'll answer no signal--they rest on the ooze, With their honey-combed guns and their skeleton crews-- And racing above them, through sunshine or gale, The Cross-Channel packets come in with the Mail. 6 Then the poor sea-sick passengers, English and French, Must open their trunks on the Custom-house bench, While the officers rummage for smuggled cigars And nobody thinks of our blood-thirsty wars!
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