Works in the Bulletin 1913
      Now, 'ere's my tip
      Fer the Fusion ship,
   An' I tells it straight an' square.
      I'm a rare old tar
      As nigh an' far
   You'll not meet ev'rywhere.
      I've seen 'er sail
      In many a gale,
   But she's done 'er final trip;
So I 'itches me breeches, an' a simple tale I pitches
   O' this good ole Fusion ship.

'Twas Alf an' Joe, Long years ago, They built 'er any 'ow. 'Twas a strange ole skiff With 'er keel skew-wiff, An' a double-ended bow. Yus, a nose each end, An' a grecian bend Amidships, quaint an' queer. When I seen 'er take the water, "Ho!" ses I, "she is a snorter!" An' I gives a 'earty cheer.
An' sail she did. But I'l lay ten quid No ship, befor enor since, Done 'ark 'er tricks; 'Er darned ole fix 'Ud make longshoremen wince. She'd bob and bow, The blamed old scow, Like a wet an' foolish 'en; An' 'er subsekint behav'er an' the effects fer to save 'er Was a treat fer sialor-men.
An' Alf 'e was 'Er skipper, 'cos No other could be got To sail that craft! An' fore an' aft They was a rare ole lot. So queer a crew I never knew An' Joe, 'e was fust mate. An' to 'ear 'im scold and rate 'er, when 'e tried to navigate 'er - Well, I tell yeh, it was great!
Fer some they said To point 'er 'ead Fer nor'-nor'-east by east, Fer Tory Bay, An' some said "Nay," An' the langwidge never eased. An' some they pressed To sail doo west, Fer the ole Freetection port. An' the way she waltzed an' wobbled, while they 'owled an' fought an' squabbled. Ho, I never seen sich sport!
An' poor ole Joe! 'Is watch below Was mostly short an' sweet; Fer 'e never knew Wot time that crew Might up an' change 'er beat. But Alf, the boss, 'E took 'is doss, An' 'e let 'er sail or stop; Fer in days when seas was finer 'e was skipper of a liner, An' 'e sorter felt the drop.
Now, she dropped at last 'Er anchor fast In the 'arbor of Recess. 'Er sheets is tore, An' 'er plates is wore, An' she'll sail no more, I guess. Alf got the pip On 'er final trip, An' there's some as said 'e swore 'E was sickened of 'er capers; so 'e 'anded in 'id papers, An' she'll put to sea no more.
But it's 'ip, 'ip, 'ip! fer the Fusion ship, Fer the navigatin' 'en! Since 'er cruise begun She 'as give great fun To us 'eart sailor-men. We 'ave cheered an' laughed An' joked an' chaffed Since the day she put to sea; So I takes a pull and 'itches (as our 'abit is) my breeches, An' I give 'er three times three.

The Bulletin, 23 January 1913, p26

Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003