`Wings` Barry front left.

SPECIAL EMBLEM

I watched our Standard flutter gently in the breeze,
Saw the duty bugler positioned there at ease,
Soon then at attention – everyone was still,
Then I heard the bugle sound and felt a sudden chill.

It’s a very special emblem our Standard-Bearer carries,
Born aloft with deference where good men meet at rallies,
Gathered in a meeting place in homage to our dead,
It represents raw courage, on oceans far widespread.

Dipped in hushed remembrance while standing on parade,
In unison with `last post`, or `sunset` when it’s played,
Reflecting on our brothers at the bottom of the sea,
The unmarked tomb of mariners - freedom is not free.

Worn upon our merchant ships not only when we muster,
It’s the mark of British Seamen, who call it our Red Duster,
Sometimes at a funeral it makes a coffin shroud,
A final sad reminder that a veteran’s served us proud.

For centuries it’s been displayed, time has not forgot,
When nobly then it sailed with us into the shell and shot,
I watched our ensign flutter gently in the breeze,
And wiped away a tear - when the bugler stood at ease.

Inspired by `Wings` Barry - M.N.A. Standard Bearer.

SEPTEMBER THE THIRD

Merchant Navy Day.

Our Country celebrates centenaries and the cenotaph’s just cause,

We remember Airmen, and Soldiers from the wars,

The Navy and Civilians and Miners from the pit,

Royalty and Land Girls - all those that did their bit.

Now the Merchant Navy, has its special say,

Flying its Red Ensign on the Third September day,

From our public buildings in Britain and abroad,

So the population may look up and applaud.

Reminding everybody of the sacrifice they made,

Shipping vital cargoes in a mortal wartime trade,

Mostly sailing unarmed or with very poor defence,

Causalities and losses were appalling and immense.

Round the world they voyaged `cross oceans near and far,

Magnetic mines abundant on both sides of the bar,

Torpedoes launched from U boats, bombs aimed from the sky,

Salvoes fired from raiders, intent that ships would die.

Often in awful conditions, at work in numbing cold,

Through voracious seas of the Arctic with explosives in the hold,

Or the white heat of the tropics, steaming into hell,

Living on tons of petrol dreading the enemy’s shell.

Our lads ran the gauntlet braving marauder’s might,

Showing a stubborn Red Duster every day of the fight.

If they survived - they returned, not once but again and again,

Hence lifeblood brought to nations by indefatigable men.

On all the seas and rivers where British seamen go,

From the tropics to the edges, of where the icebergs grow,

You will see the ruddy bunting of bright or smoky red,

It’s our Merchant Navy Ensign flying overhead.

PQ 17

A convoy bound for Russia in July of ‘42

Gathered off old Reykjavik in Iceland’s summer hue,

Thirty five big freighters laden with supplies

Sailing in the midnight sun – some thought it was unwise.

Still a perilous journey, rolling like a log,

With the sea spray freezing and banks of icy fog,

Across the Arctic Ocean all without a lee,

Toward the North of Norway to the Barents Sea.

Steaming ever watchful, ticking off the hours,

Shepherded by Navy ships with their fighting powers,

Including three destroyers guarding yet again,

Stores to move an army of fifty thousand men.

Back at home in London the Admiral Dudley Pound,

Sent a message to his Navy “You will withdraw Westbound”,

The cause of this dire action to the Admiral was plain,

The Germans sailed their surface ships and Tirpitz was to blame.

The stunned escort Commander – his orders must obey,

Turned his men at full speed and sent them all away,

From his cruisers to the convoy the signal lamp did chatter,

“Sorry lads to leave you but convoy now must scatter”.

Though Tirpitz left her moorings – there wasn’t any threat,

Unhappily, the power that be, didn’t know that yet,

Thus we had the convoy dispersed and all spread out,

At the mercy of the Luftwaffe and U-boats there about.

Now the deadly onslaught on July the fourth began,

The sinking of the Carlton, William Hooper, Zaafaran,

Paulus Potter, River Afton, Navarino, Honomu,

The Pancraft and the Earlston, Dan Morgan just a few.

Many ships were doomed – they numbered twenty four

With their vital cargoes sent to the ocean floor,

Misleading information meant brave men went to die,

Left without protection, knew not the reason why.

THE MERCHANT NAVY ASSOCIATION ALPHABET  - BRISTOL

A is attendance when we `turn to` en masse,

B is for beer - a nice pint of bass,

C is the cash for a tarpaulin muster

D is devotion to our famous red duster.

E is existence of the friendly warm greeting

F is for farewell at the end of each meeting,

G is the `gents` where we go to pump ship,

H is for high spirits when off on a trip.

I is the input we get from the boys,

J is for the jokes as old as convoys,

K is for keel to keep even and stable,

L is for leadership from the top table.

M is for memories - there's many of them,

N is for nautical - seafaring men,

O is for old shell-backs now living on land,

P is the parade when we march to the band.

Q is for questions when we'd like to know more,

R is for reply to those on the floor,

S is for the ships that we spent our time on,

T is for our talent that steamed `em along

U is the uniform of blazer and tie,

V is for voyage and shouts of `aye aye`,

W is for waterfront with monument and trees,

X is for Xmas - we've spent overseas.

Y is for the yarns and the stories we know,

Z is for zest and our get up and go.

The FAN DANCER

“Are you Sir, an old Sailor man gazing out to sea”?

I was young Sir, a sailor man, what do you want of me?

“Is it true that in the old days you did sail Easterly”?

Indeed I did let’s find a seat then listen close to me

“I’ve heard that in the Orient things aren’t quite the same”

To answer you I need a drink - a large one is my aim

“Are you going to tell me now, of the ladies of Japan”?

Aye, this whisky’s good so thanks, and cheers to you, young man.

There’s strange things done in the rising sun and one of them`s no lie,

The ladies bits flow east and west the same way as their eye,

I do know that but Ill tell you flat of the time I was taken in,

In a port called Yokohama in a place of red light sin,

There I met a maiden she wore a green kimono,

She was a thing of beauty her name was Sidjeko,

I ardently pursued her - and watched her sexy dance,

As she twirled around with feathered fans I prayed I had a chance.

My mates all agreed with me and did not cast a slur,

Such grace and charm she had, as I fell in love with her,

I had found my lass divine my brain was in a whirl,

My Oriental dancer, my shapely, perfect girl,

Healthy, witching, wise with loveliness serene,

Proud I was to win this prize, half angel and half queen,

I`d seen the world and many girls though not yet twenty four,

My future clear I could settle near this lady I adore.

I could see she fell for me, was not the least bit haughty,

So jumped with glee and took her home my thoughts a little naughty,

She performed for me quite privately she really turned me on,

What happened next defies belief with total cover gone,

She danced and teased until the end then jettisoned her fan,

Well blow me down - I never guessed - the lady was a man,

I could not believe it, my mind was in a fog,

So I upped and ran - just scarpered, like a robber’s dog.

Later in the bar, my mind in slow reflection,

I asked about my dancer - the one I popped the question,

By night I found she pranced around near naked as Godiva,

By day he ran the local tram - I’m told he was the driver,

There’s strange things done in the rising sun but lad you must remember,

If you fall for an Oriental be sure to check the gender,

An` it`s wise to leave the lights on, when in your sexual prime,

Or you may have a shock by a man in a frock and waste your drinking time.

A SHIP`S COOK

A Cook will share the hazards of most things maritime,

In a cramped and pitching galley that’s rolling all the time,

He suffers too from burns and scalds, or splashes from the fat,

And no stranger to the food poisoning, tasting from a vat.

Going back to old days aboard the sailing ships,

Staple grub was dry hash before they thought of chips,

The Cook would boil up salt-beef to go with musty bread,

Perhaps there were some dry peas immersed with pork instead.

The coffee made from green beans failed to satisfy,

A boiled up weak infusion - but hot to get them by,

All was pretty awful I think you may agree,

If living on the rations they doled out there at sea.

The test of every sea-Cook was the making of his duff,

He used some grease or suet, mixing up the stuff,

With a dollop of molasses among the weevily flour,

Then forced it in a canvas bag then boiled it by the hour.

Sometimes he added raisins’ - he would call them plums,

To make this heavy pudding that stuck hard to the gums,

It wouldn’t stop the scurvy but beat the tack they knew,

A special dish on Sunday - a treat for all the crew.

AUSTRALIA

I flew back from Australia where mosquito suck one’s blood,

And the pesky fruit flies, crawl between the grub,

While staying on the East coast, in part of New South Wales,

A little in from Lennox Head `tween scrub and rolling dales.

Where the rollers from the ocean come crashing on the beach,

And the mandarins’ and mangoes, picked with easy reach,

I gloried in the swimming and floating on the surf,

Hoped to back some winners on Sydney’s distant turf.

Deadly brown snakes squirming, upon te open ground,

The searing sun with burning wind and lizards all around,

Between the trees the spiders swing to make a fatal web,

Then chase across to flies that stick and render them quite dead.

The earthy croak of dark green frogs lurking in the drain,

The cut-short grass of gardens sorely needing rain,

Fruit so sweet and plentiful - eaten with the bran,

The fish and tasty salad, to sate the inner man.

In a local paddock, the cattle on the hoof,

The well fed beaky egrets perching on the roof,

The purple tinge of sunset, at the start of night,

Merging with old Byron Bay against it’s loom of light.

The boxing stance of kangaroos looking for a fight,

Sturdy trunks of gum trees bleached a faded white,

Watered lawns all perfect `mid unfamiliar flowers,

And lazing on a sun-bed for many peaceful hours.

Yarning on verandas with a joking friendly mucker,

Quaffing ice-cold schooners, with a bite of tucker,

In the hazy distance the range of Burringbar,

The whistling of the butcher birds returning calls so far

The `Southern Cross` just hanging there, early in the morn,

A`fore the screech of parakeets at the break of dawn,

Plus the Aussie hospitality where I went to stay,

These things I remember since I flew away.

Now I’m back in England I recall that land of wonder,

When I don my slouch hat - the one with corks down under,

I’m thinking they were used to me - no more a whinging `pom`,

Just nodded heads and muttered - “there goes a To and From”.

March 2002

SINGAPORE

Flying south to Sydney I stopped at Singapore,
Under threat of punishment if I broke the law,
From the elegance of Raffles to the red light part of town,
Every one's obedient - no one lets you down.

The Tiger beer is legal and you may smoke outside,
But better not get drunk my friend or cast that fag aside,
The weather's always lovely beneath this equator sun,
But don't attempt the jaywalking for jail is not much fun.

You dare not raise your voice or even point your finger,
Must not swear or argue else your feet will scarcely linger,
No talk of unemployment - no mention of a dole,
There is no begging on the street whatever state your soul.

There's plenty bits of greenery among the city sprawl,
Where the state erected notices warning one and all,
~Keep off the grass~don`t wait here~no dogs allowed this side,
No rubbish dumped quite obvious as I took a taxi ride.

Every thing is clinical as delights I tried to savour,
When touring round the town - on my best behaviour,
The people look so miserable no one seems to laugh,
While avoiding all the litter bins that clutter up the path.

But I had this awful feeling that gave me quite a fright,
That I would break a law somehow and miss my outward flight,
Then it slowly dawned on me - I'm not afraid of muggers,
I'm wary of the opposite - them crime prevention buggers.

On my immigration card boldly writ in red,
In no uncertain terms the statement starkly said,
"Death to all drug traffickers under Singaporee law",
Well I’d smuggled in some baccy and bottles - three or four.

The Customs never found them `cus I hid them out the way,
But happy then I guess I was - to fly out again next day.

Feb. 2002

A `Lewis` gunner.
The small metal M.N.Badge was the only form of recognition worn by most Merchant Seamen when ashore.

MY HEROES

Speak not to me of Heroes unless they served at sea,
Men that have the Nelson touch - they’re the ones for me,
They sailed the coast of England and all the globe around,
Saviours of our country that our blue lanes surround.

Whether past or future - Admiral or not,
Takes a special breed of man to take a sailors lot,
From wooden ships and iron men sent out to explore,
To keeping lifelines flowing in desperate times of war.

Oiling wheels of commerce fighting all the way

Engaging with the enemy the weather all the way

Steaming in the convoy risking life and limb

Or sailing bowsprit under at a typhoon’s whim

The hardy Western Ocean men you cannot disregard,

Or those that manned the tea clippers reefing on the yard,

Maybe in a submarine in claustrophobic space

Perhaps upon an oil rig in a God forsaken place.

The pilots and the tug-men that work the clock around

At the end of voyages docking safe and sound,

Lifeboat crews and fishermen all that do their share

So take me back to sea boys - my heroes are all there.

THE EX PATS

Ex patriots they scamper off– they go to live in Spain.

For to escape the fog and cold depressing rain,

The house is sold with furniture and garage sales abound,

The car is filled with personal stuff as they steam from Plymouth Sound.

The Costa Blanca beckons them with a new life to the fore,

With a brand new villa waiting or apartment with pine door

But take heed my friends and listen before your all is lost

In case with heavy heart old son you must count up the cost.

The cloudless skies and burning sun– in relentless way,

Remember you’re an Englander – do you want it every day?

It’s a lazy life and so laid back on a pool side plastic chair,

Time to think of family and wish they too were there.

But it’s not to be, then you see your life’s been split asunder,

Time goes on in relaxing mode but still one has to wonder,

Of a normal day in a northern zone with seasons of the year,

Where the weekend days are different and all your friends are near.

A million brits are out there on the Blanca or the Sol,

For some the Spanish good life takes a weighty toll,

It’s not my imagination – for I came out to see….

And speak to many ex-pats an’ it’s what they told to me.

For plenty it is perfect– I’ve no call to shout,

But if you’re set on moving, please have a shade of doubt,

For I came, I saw, I pondered, by the Mediterranean sea,

Found so many amigos would fly home with me.

Voya en casa manana

S.T.S. Royston Grange

S.T.V. ROYSTON GRANGE

Worse things happen at sea they say – worse things happen at sea,

In `72 this came true with the tanker `Tien Chee`,

Within dense fog near the River Plate, she collided with a freighter,

Petrol gushed from shattered tanks exploding seconds later.

The other ship the `Royston Grange ` in fatal rendezvous,

Lost seventy four razed on her - all passengers and crew,

Full cargo holds of butter ignited overall,

Fused in mighty fireball that left no chance at all.

Ten thousand tons of vessel went up in lethal blaze,

No time then for rescue or warning sound to raise,

Montevideo close at hand, bodies still entrapped,

The Houlder`s ship towed away and later on just scrapped.

By the Tower of London – in All Hallows Church,

There is a stained glass window - if carrying out research,

In commemoration colour with burning red repands,

Depicting Royston Grange in memory of all hands.

Worse things happen at sea they say,

Worse things happen at sea…..

British Merchant Ship "Royston Grange"

Built in 1959 and owned by the Houlder Line the ship was bound from Buenos Aires to London with a cargo of chilled and frozen beef plus butter. With a total complement of 74, including 12 passengers and a pilot, on the 11th May 1972 and in dense fog she collided with the tanker `Tien Chee` in the Punta Indio Channel, 35 miles from Montevideo. The Tien Chee which was carrying 20,000 tons of crude oil immediately burst into flames. The flames were then carried to the Royston Grange which then burned particularly hot due to both the crude oil and her own cargo of butter. All the persons on the Royston Grange were killed and the Tien Chee lost 8 of her 40 crew, the remainder being rescued by the Argentinean Navy.

The S.S. DAYBREAK

Nineteen seventeen it was – during perilous days,

The freighter S.S. Daybreak loaded deep with maize,

Steamed along on Christmas Eve near the Southern Rock,

Off the coast of County Down abeam of Strangford Lough,

No notice or forewarning, a torpedo found its mark,

It came and blew the nose right off – plunging all in dark

The vessel’s screw rotating during its descent,

Her boilers then exploding as underneath they went.

U – Boat Eighty Seven had loosed her lethal load,

To meet this helpless target on a winter’s ocean road,

One and twenty brave men - the total of her crew,

Murdered in the Irish Sea by folk they never knew,

It was seen by witnesses or perhaps we’d never know

What occurred to brave men dragged down far below,

Entombed there now forever, thirty fathoms deep,

Akin to unsung mariners in Davy Jones’s keep.

OUR VETERANS

Once on the quay at Welsh Back, I saw our Veterans stand,

Time and care had reached them, over sea and land,

But now you’ll see in passing, on seats erected here,

The nameplates of our heroes, in memory held dear,

They chanced their lives for country, asked not the reason why,

The Nelson touch abiding, within a sparking eye,

The long todays` of youth soon pass, in this living game,

Tomorrows seemed so far away, they risked them just the same,

By sailing in our convoys across the devil seas,

Still our Duster flutters, because of men like these.

RAYMOND VICTOR STEED

A Galley Boy named Raymond Steed joined the `Empire Morn`,
At the docks in Newport, close where he was born,
In The Merchant Navy now - but only just fourteen,
He'd gone to sail in convoys - fighting fit and keen.

Nineteen forty three it was, aggression in full flow,
Unmindful of the danger, he couldn't wait to go,
Ray carried out his duties, earning meagre pay,
Until alas in April, his world was blown away.

Not far off Casablanca, the `Empire` struck a mine,
Laid there by a U-Boat with purpose and design,
The consequent explosion, set cargo blasting then,
Killing brave young Raymond and twenty other men.

His body’s in Morocco, near the road to Marrakesh,
In a nurtured cemetery surroundings trim and fresh,
He was the youngest Seaman, to go and lose his life,
While standing firm in jeopardy mid the wartime strife.

Greater than five hundred boys, were sent to Neptune’s floor,
Sixteenth birthdays never met, lost for evermore,
They helped sustain our lifelines in a hostile time at sea,
Those young and unsung heroes that sailed for you and me.

A Panama Canal `Mule`

THE PANAMA CANAL MULES

There was many a lad on a tanker, a liner or tramp of the sea,

That saved up bread for the `mules`, and one of those lads was me,

Informed by the crew it was routine, and nice to be such a pal,

By hoarding grub for old Dobbin, working the long canal.

For weeks while crossing the ocean, earning a Deck boy’s pay

I stored all scraps and loaves there, plenty every day,

Later on, arriving, you could `knock me down with a feather`,

For it weren’t the type of mule, with legs and reins of leather.

These beasts had ruddy big engines - a locomotive wide,

The game was up I knew it - I’d been taken for a ride,

Quick as a flash, in a hurry, I dumped my donkey stores,

Not acting like a lubber or a stranger to these shores.

I pretended I wasn’t so stupid but wise to their childish game,

Patting myself on the back, for avoiding terrible shame,

But Galley boys and Peggy’s that fell for the seamen’s ruse,

Will never forget those mules - and bread they didn’t use.

St. Stephen`s Church
Bristol

M.N. Book Of Remembrance

You are cordially invited to pen a fitting word,

A tribute to a loved one - a mariner that served....

In the Merchant Navy in peace or time of strife,

Thus record his memory and compliment his life.

Go read about a seafarer who died in time gone by,

Written down for ever in a tome that does not lie,

His colleagues and his shipmates will be added to the roll,

Labelled there intently in copper-plated scroll.

Alas, if carved in marble, a wall would be too wide,

To mention all our mariners that went to sea and died,

Accept these pages sheltered and free from icy blast,

Clear to see by visitors and shellbacks from the past.

Not far from our Monument on Bristol’s cobbled quay,

Are these named reluctant heroes who gave their lives at sea,

Contained within a special book inscribed by Princess Anne,

Cared for by St. Stephen’s Church - peruse it when you can.

WHEN

When you want to roam the world and leave the apron strings at home,

When you’d like to drop your girl and leave the booze alone,

When you’re facing storms aplenty and need to make a lee,

Well my son, just think of going to sea.

When you’re in a dead-end job and you need another line,

When you’re going nowhere fast and wasting precious time,

When you’re feeling low and desperate to be free,

Then my lad, I’d wander off to sea.

When you’re getting in the way and maybe tired of life,

When progress is on hold and you’re putting up with strife,

When you’re in the mood, to take a tip from me,

Then my son, you should go to sea.

When you need to feel fresh air and build your self-esteem,

When you want to be a cog in a total different team,

When you feel the wanderlust - I think that you’ll agree,

Well young man, its time to go to sea.

When you’re like a lighthouse in the desert - bright but of no use,

When all you have is enemies and want to call a truce,

When you turn a deaf one to your elders, and buck a guilty plea,

Please my boy why don’t you go to sea?

When you’re winding up your Dad and upsetting poor old Mother,

When you’re teasing little Sister and fighting elder Brother,

When you’re nothing but a pain and always on a spree,

Well my lad please listen, and run away to sea!

H.M.S. RODNEY

LUCK

West of the Scottish Orkneys in October ‘39

A flotilla of our battleships steamed along in line

The Navy’s grey destroyers patrolling on the flanks

When a U-boat prowler found itself among the ranks.

It was unbelievable, a chance was heaven sent

A great attack position, found without intent

Right ahead was Rodney, then the Nelson and the Hood

A full supply of tin fish – but none were any good.

From the German submarine, torpedoes hit their mark

Incredibly those duds, never caused a spark

In disgust the Captain - Lieutenant William Zahn

Lowered down his periscope then submerged and ran.

It was a great embarrassment to the Donitz Kriegsmarine

Aboard the flagship Rodney were V.I.P.’s supreme

Sir Dudley Pound and Churchill with other Admiral guys

Engaged on board for parley after Royal Oak’s demise.

I would call it fortunate at that time of the war

When underwater weapons sometimes failed to score

There was no doubt about it – a dangerous place to be

So lucky for the top brass and First Lord of the Sea.

There were 31 U-boat attacks from favourable positions, four attacks on the Warspite, twelve attacks on various cruisers, ten attacks on destroyers and five attacks on troop transports. All torpedoes failed to explode.

 ARTIST FIND YOUR BRUSHES

 Please Artist find your brushes,

Get your pallet out for me

And paint for us a picture,

Of a clipper on the sea

A rakish topsail schooner

Canvas billowed tight

Bowsprit pointing over

Gulls in swooping flight

Running free or tacking

A pitching speedy craft

Black hull wet and shining

Bubbling wake abaft

She’ll be pushing for a record

Of passage time at sea

Racing home from China

And her cargo is rich tea

Slicing through the waves

Her bow extreme and sharp

Flying our red ensign

It’s the famous Cutty Sark

Please paint for me this picture,

This true historic scene

Where sky is blue with sunshine

And the sea a topaz green.

THE FREEDOM OF OUR CITY

The freedom of our land men, the freedom of our land,

Now we think of doughty men and how you made a stand,

Our country really needed you when called on to defend,

It’s that you fought and died for, ‘till the bitter end.

The freedom of our seas boys, the freedom of our seas,

You carried on your duty boys, sailing from the quays

Ranging round the world in peace, also in the wars,

You reluctant heroes, hauled succour to our shores.

The freedom of our city lads, the freedom of our city,

For you Merchand Navy lads – who brought prosperity,

In Bristol’s recognition – and at the peoples bid,

Take honour from our citizens recalling what you did.

On the Merchant Navy Association being granted the freedom of the City of Bristol.

July 2002

THE STOKEHOLD

I passed a big ship steaming - into a heavy sea,
Powered by steam engines - to some a mystery,
She had a `woodbine` funnel forcing up the draught,
So I knew the `Black Gang` were working at their craft.

Trimmers kept fuel coming, with barrows full of coal,
Often from the `tween-deck `an the vessel on the roll,
Firemen fed the furnaces making constant steam,
Choking and half roasted, eyes smarting to extreme.

Several of those ovens under their command,
In non-stop roar of engines and boiler’s fierce demand.
Attired in vest and blue jeans, sweat rag duly clutched,
Leather belt worn backward or buckle seared when touched,

Iron doors hinged open - facing fervent heat,
An art to shovelling coal trying to keep your feet,
Raking and a`poking to stop clogging of the bars,
Sweating bodies shining over tattoos and the scars.

An eye upon the gauges to keep things just precise,
Striving with their working tools - devil, rake and slice,
Used to sort the clinker out `afore eight bells applied,
Trimmers hauled the ashes up and dumped `em overside.

Well beneath the waterline these men earned their pay,
Supplying red hot caverns, two hundred tons a day,
I passed that big ship steaming - many years ago,
Knowing that her `Black Gang were slaving down below.

THE T.S. INDEFATIGABLE

Theytravelled up from villages, the city and the fen,

Young lads sent to `Inde` to train as sailor men,

Most were only fourteen – raw or streetwise youth,

Some from broken families, all of them uncouth.

Arriving at this training ship upon the Menai Straits,

Embarking on a tough regime once passing through the gates,

Instilled in them a discipline learning all the while,

Comradeship and fortitude to go that extra mile.

There was no mollycoddling while gaining self respect,

Marching to a bugle band and drummers beat erect,

Torn away from apron strings, standing quite assured,

Confident and able, afore they went abroad.

Sitting on old Nozzer`s Rock they never will forget,

Reflecting on the values they’ll also not regret,

The vista of Mount Snowdon across the other shore,

While manning up the whalers and pulling on the oar.

Rodney, Drake, Raleigh, Hood were divisions there,

Leading hands and head boys served a handy share,

Supervised on navy lines by officers and peers,

The making of our seamen, all throughout the years.

Developing a character bringing to the fore,

Reliant sturdy mariners in times of peace or war,

Eventually they sailed away – began a life at sea,

Joining ranks of hardy souls with `Inde` pedigree.

Many served as Captains, others came ashore,

All of them indebted for biding there before,

Recalling all the standards and qualities back then,

That set the course of youngsters and turned `em into men.

Petty Officer Boy. J.Earl No. 98 Hood Division Jan. `56 – July`57.