THE BATTLE-FLEET.

By John Graham Bower

The moment we have waited long

Is closing on us fast,

When, cutting short the turret-gong,

We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-song

That hails the Day at last.

The clashing rams come driving forth

To meet the waiting shell,

And far away to East and North

Our targets steam to meet Thy Wrath,

And dare the Gates of Hell.

We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-day

To stay the sinking sun —

But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray,

And keep, O Lord, Thy mists away

Until Thy work is done.