 | English Roses |  |
A BLOOMING ADMIRAL.
Old Conningtower was seasoned salt,
By many a breeze and ruder pal
And kinsmen now in their cold vault,
Into a blooming Admiral;
For bulldog-like he kept his troth,
And liked a good mouth-filling oath
Red-hot and neatly rounded;
He loved a glass and pretty lass,
And was by nought confounded.
The breath, as wine, of tossing brine
Gave him its breadth and motion—
With duty and devotion.
By many a breeze and ruder pal
And kinsmen now in their cold vault,
Into a blooming Admiral;
For bulldog-like he kept his troth,
And liked a good mouth-filling oath
Red-hot and neatly rounded;
He loved a glass and pretty lass,
And was by nought confounded.
The breath, as wine, of tossing brine
Gave him its breadth and motion—
With duty and devotion.
A ship-shape customer was he
At every fight or festival,
Wrought by the music of the sea
Into a blooming Admiral.
He had a tender ear for wrongs,
And hands like hammers and the tongs
That struck and did not fumble;
And manly strife to him was life,
However rough and tumble.
He held by Church, even when his lurch
Was not exactly steady;
But he was always ready.
At every fight or festival,
149
Into a blooming Admiral.
He had a tender ear for wrongs,
And hands like hammers and the tongs
That struck and did not fumble;
And manly strife to him was life,
However rough and tumble.
He held by Church, even when his lurch
Was not exactly steady;
But he was always ready.
He tussled hard with every foe,
Assisting at their funeral
And saw them safely down below—
As should a blooming Admiral;
While he, though pounded ill and oft,
Still only higher went aloft
And got more way for steerage,
Or shook out sail for fresh avail,
Till anchored in the Peerage.
He handled craft well fore and aft
But hated cries of faction,
And blessed the call to action.
Assisting at their funeral
And saw them safely down below—
As should a blooming Admiral;
While he, though pounded ill and oft,
Still only higher went aloft
And got more way for steerage,
Or shook out sail for fresh avail,
Till anchored in the Peerage.
He handled craft well fore and aft
But hated cries of faction,
And blessed the call to action.
His purse was open to each friend,
He brooked no insult to a gal;
The manners it were hard to mend,
In such a blooming Admiral.
He feared no enemy or blast
And nailed his colours to the mast,
When comrades tried to scuttle;
And his an eye for history,
Like stout old Captain Cuttle.
And when, in short, he entered Port
A hulk not now so limber,
He smelled of tar and timber.
He brooked no insult to a gal;
The manners it were hard to mend,
In such a blooming Admiral.
He feared no enemy or blast
And nailed his colours to the mast,
When comrades tried to scuttle;
And his an eye for history,
Like stout old Captain Cuttle.
And when, in short, he entered Port
A hulk not now so limber,
He smelled of tar and timber.
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