Classic Poem

O Chopping Channel! where the breakers roar
From Newlyn to Penzance on English shore,
From Morlaix to Étaples on Gallic soil,
How brushmen haunt thee for their yearly spoil!
What subjects crowd upon the maudlin eye,
Soft, shoddy themes that stir the gentle sigh:
Boats going " down" in view of harbour light,
God-fearing, drunken fishers dazed with fright:
Boats shoreward bound, with heavy " hauls" of fish,
All hands inspired with but a single wish —
Anxious to flood their stomachs with bad grog,
Swearing strange oaths and grumbling at the fog;
The wary housewives lurking close at hand
To make a frenzied rush upon the band,
To halve the happy spoil and share the gin,
And teach their little ones the ways of sin:
The Cross upon the beach where widows wait
To tempt the lads and trap another mate:
The parting of the fishers, muffled warm:
The priest who prays the fleet will ride the storm:
The death at sea, the corpse and canvas pall
Weighted of woful " bleat" and cannonball:
The harbor bar a-moaning in the hush,
In terror of the dauber's deadly brush: —
We know these paint-worn subjects like a book,
And how they bait the literary hook
Of callow bunglers with a technique vile
Who rate the anecdote above the style.
The end's not yet, the Tide is whirling in,
And days to be will bring more Channel sin.