No. 3. IF MR. MASEFIELD HAD WRITTEN “CASABIANCA”

“You dirty hog,” “You snouty snipe,” “You lump of muck,” “You bag of tripe,” Such, as their latest breaths they drew, The objurgations of the crew. —— —— —— they roared As they went tumbling overboard, Or frizzled like so many suppers All along the halyard scuppers. “You ——” ... the last was gone, And Cassy yelled there all alone. (He thought the old man was on the ship.) “Father! this gives me the fair pip!” “My God, you old vagabone,” he cried, “If only I....” No voice replied; Only the tall flames higher sprang, Amid the spars, and soared and sang, Only along the rigging came God’s great unfolding flower of flame, And Love’s divine dim planet shed Her radiance on the many dead; And past the battling fleets the sea Stretched to the world’s edge tranquilly, Breathing with slow, contented breath As though it were in love with Death, As it has breathed since first began Man’s inhumanity to man, As it will do when like a scroll All the heavens together roll. There’s that purple passage done And I have one less lap to run. Dogs barked, owls hooted, cockerels crew, As in my works they often do When, flagging with my main design, I pad with a descriptive line. Young Cassy cried again: “Oh, damn! What an unhappy put I am! Will nobody go out and search For dad, who’s left me in the lurch? For dad, who’s left me on the poop, For dad, who’s left me in the soup, For dad, who’s left me on the deck. Perhaps it’s what I should expeck Considerin’ ’ow he treated me Before I came away to sea.” “Often at home he used to beat My head for talking in the street, Often for things I didden do, He brushed my breeches with a shoe. O! but I wish that I was home now, Treading the soft old Breton loam now, In that old Breton country where Mellows the golden autumn air, And all the tender champaign fills With hyacinths and daffodils, And on God’s azure uplands now They plough the ploughed fields with a plough, And earth-worms feel averse from laughter, With hungry white birds following after. And maids at evening walk with men Through the meadows and up the glen To hear the old sweet tale again.” The deck was getting hot and hotter, “Father!” he screamed, “you —— rotter!” The deck was getting red and redder, And now he thought he’d take a header, Now he advanced and now he funked it.... It had been better had he bunked it, For as he wavered thus, and swore, There came a slow tremendous roar. Lord Nelson suddenly woke up. “Where is Old Cassy and his pup? ‘Don’t know,’ you say? Why, strike me blind, I s’pose I’d better ask the wind.” He asked the wind; the brooding sky At once gave back the wind’s reply: “Wotto, Nelson!” “Wotto, sonny?” “Do you think you’re being funny? Can’t you look around, confound you, At all these fragments that surround you, Thick as thieves upon the sea, Instead of coming bothering me?”

And the flames rose, and leaping flames of fire Leapt round the masts and made the spars a crown, A golden crown as ravenous as desire. “Father!” he cried, “my feet are getting brown.” “Father!” he cried. The quiet stars looked down, The flames rose up like flowers overhead. He was alone and all the crew were dead.