Classic Poem

(And by this Cape goe the Portingales to their Spicerie.)

'Tis a Song of Broken English — German and Russian and Dane —
Sung by a bush-bred mongrel, as mad as the Prince — or as sane;
Austrian, Swiss and Pole — and a song of greater things,
By a " beery Bulletin scribbler " with the blood of Danish kings.

Henry the son of Peter; Peter the son of Lars,
Through a race of poets and pirates under the frozen stars.
Back to the Thirteen, sailing on Friga's Day to war,
To the pillage of Scotland and England, and the worship of Odin and Thor.

Northward they went from Holland, round by the frozen sea,
Seeking a phantom passage to " goe to their spicerie " .
Read the tale of the White Waste, where the splintering iceberg floats,
The tale of a Dutchman, Barents! his ship and his open boats!

Holland! half-drowned, but triumphant, in the spirit that never shall yield,
When the sea drove back her invaders, and her fleet sailed over the field!
Dutchmen, as lean as coolies, fighting for Liberty,
And Holland, at peace, reclaiming the whole of the Zuyder Zee!

Southward they sailed from Lisbon, the track of the " Portingales " ,
By Cabo Tormentosso where the ghost of the Waratah sails;
By the Cape of Storms and Magellan — capes of good hope and despair;
Carl and Hans with their captains, old Dunder-und-Plitzen, were there,

Down in the frozen silence, close to the spinning Pole;
Sweltered in Indian forests where the Service has never a soul.
Deep in the mighty Rockies — on the sands of the carrion bird —
In the conquered McDonell Ranges their Broken English is heard.

(Hark! through our Civil Service, choked in a dry despair,
The sound of Broken English is heard in high places there,
Roundly denouncing " Humpug " , stirring official dirt,
Daring to say, for Australia, " more than his pillit is wort! " )

Voices in Broken English ever defied the Fates —
Saving a State to the Union — saving the South to the States.
Steel in his self-made duty, deaf to the world at large —
Voice of a Foreign Father: " Moof up, my poys, und — Sharge! "

Foreign father and husband, foreign children and wife,
Thoughts in a different language, and Past in a different life.
He cares not a jot for " der shtory " we " pack-worts to frontworts tell " ;
We smile at his Broken English — but we'd go with old Blitz to Hell!

Lights of the placid Liner, a mass of iron and steel,
A little Norse on the look-out and a big Swede at the wheel;
A thousand lives and a palace, and a fortune in merchandise
Depend on a pair of the mildest and bluest Norwegian eyes.

Nuggety, fair and placid (he turns for three paces, thus);
But uneasy as that old sailor on the schooner Hesperus .
( " Light on the starport bow, sir! " ) He thinks of his native town
As she shifts a point — and he notes it. And the smoky smother comes down.

Open boat from the liner, on the far-flung Shark Reef hurled!
Laden with women and children, and manned from all the world!
Swooping to sky and axis we with the glass discern
A little Norwegian for'ard and a big Swede in the stern.

Shoutings in Broken English to the driftwood fire aglow,
Holding her back for " der next vun " — " peaching her vedder or no " —
Boat in the grip of Bushmen, ropes to the line and row —
" Now for the vomans and shildren! Pully poys — Dot vas so! "

Proud of the Broken English, and proud to be a son
Of men who to vagabond British said " Do dot! " and it was done —
Proud of the scrubby red beard, of the wiry muscles and thin,
And proud of the tinted veining shown through a Northern skin.

Henry the son of Peter, Peter the son of Lars,
Through a race of pirate poets under the Northern stars.
And the Thirteen Sailors sailing on Friga's Day to land —
Joseph, the son of Henry, shall read it and understand.