Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/139

 XXXVIII

, 1916

HE news had flashed throughout the land,

The night had dropped in dread—

What would the morrow's sunrise tell

Of England's mighty dead?

What homes were wrecked? What hearts were doomed

To bleed in sorrow's school?

At early morn I sought my friend,

The fisherman of Poole.

He waited there beside the steps:

The boat rocked just below:

"You're ready, m'm? The morning's fine!

I thought as how you'd go!

I dug the bait an hour agone—

We calls 'em 'lug-worms' here.

The news is grave? Aye, so I've heard!

Step in! Your skirt is clear.

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