Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The French Wars
T
To Dieppe and Boulogne and to Calais cross over;
And in each of those runs there is not a square yard
Where the English and French haven’t fought and fought hard!
They’d stretch like a raft from the shore to the shore,
And we’d see, as we crossed, every pattern and plan
Of ship that was built since sea-fighting began.
Cogs, carracks and galleons with gay gilded poops—
Hoys, caravels, ketches, corvettes and the rest,
As thick as regattas, from Ramsgate to Brest.
And Nelson’s crack frigates are hid from our eyes,
Where the high Seventy-fours of Napoleon’s days
Lie down with Deal luggers and French chasse-marées.
With their honey-combed guns and their skeleton crews—
And racing above them, through sunshine or gale,
The Cross-Channel packets come in with the Mail.
Must open their trunks on the Custom-house bench,
While the officers rummage for smuggled cigars
And nobody thinks of our blood-thirsty wars!