I wish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea—

I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me;

There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz,

But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits.

I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron Cross

By strafing sail and cargo ships—but don't you feel the loss

Of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war,

And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar?

When you know that it's a case of "May the fish run good and true,"

For if they don't it's ten to one it's R.I.P. for you?

Although perhaps you can't be blamed—your motives may be pure—

You're rather new to submarines—in fact, an amateur;

But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done,

And leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother Hun.

You wouldn't like the job, my lad—the motors turning slow,

You wouldn't like the winter-time—storm and wind and snow;

You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz—unless your faith is strong—

Up and down on the long patrol—How long, O Lord, how long?

We don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there,

Up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the E-boat's prayer:

"Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky,

And help our eyes at the periscope as the High Sea Fleet goes by."