Classic Poem

BEN Block was a veteran of naval renown,
And renown was his only reward;
For the Board still neglected his merit to crown,
As no interest he held with “my lord.”

Yet brave as old Benbow was sturdy old Ben,
And he'd laugh at the cannon's loud roar,
When the death-dealing broadside made worm's-meat of men,
And the scuppers were streaming with gore.

Nor could a Lieutenant's poor stipend provoke
The staunch Tar to despise scanty prog:
But his biscuit he'd crunch, turn his quid, crack his joke,
And drown care in a jorum of grog.

Thus year after year in a subaltern state,
Poor Ben for his King fought and bled;
Till time had unroof'd all the thatch from his pate,
And the hair from his temples had fled

When on humbly saluting, with sinciput bare,
The first Lord of the Admiralty once,
Quoth his Lordship, “Lieutenant, you've lost all your hair
Since I last had a peep at your sconce!”

“Why, my Lord,” replied Ben—“it with truth may be said,
While a bald pate I long have stood under;
There are so many Captains walk'd over my head,
That to see me quite scalp'd were no wonder!”