Upon the skirts of battle, from Sluys to Trafalgar,
We know that there were small craft, because there always are;
Yacht, sweeper, sloop and drifter, to-day as yesterday,
The big ships fight the battles, but the small craft clear the way.
They scout before the squadrons when mighty fleets engage;
They glean War's dreadful harvest when the fight has ceased to rage;
Too great they count no hazard, no task beyond their power,
And merchantmen bless small craft a hundred times an hour.
In Admirals' despatches their names are seldom heard;
They justify their being by more than written word;
In battle, toil and tempest and dangers manifold
The doughty deeds of small craft will never all be told.
Scant ease and scantier leisure--they take no heed of these,
For men lie hard in small craft when storm is on the seas;
A long watch and a weary, from dawn to set of sun--
The men who serve in small craft, their work is never done.
And if, as chance may have it, some bitter day they lie
Out-classed, out-gunned, out-numbered, with nought to do but die,
When the last gun's out of action, good-bye to ship and crew,
But men die hard in small craft, as they will always do.
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