TWO o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow,

But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!

So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go—

Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,

Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;

And here it comes—she'll be much too late—yes, damn it, she's out of tune—

You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,

And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;

Then rah-rah-rah on a rising note—my oath, they're racing now—

The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past,

And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast

Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one—Blast—!

In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew—

"I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you,

And you'd better be quick and lift again—she won't, she's diving through"—

The Lord be thanked, it's my relief—Cheer up, old sport, it's clean;

No, just enough to wash your face—you could hardly call it green;

A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine—