Now, 'ere's my tip
      Fer the Fusion ship,
   An' I tells it straight an' square.
      I'm a rare old tar
      As nigh an' far
   You'll not meet ev'rywhere.
      I've seen 'er sail
      In many a gale,
   But she's done 'er final trip;
So I 'itches me breeches, an' a simple tale I pitches
   O' this good ole Fusion ship.


      'Twas Alf an' Joe,
      Long years ago,
   They built 'er any 'ow.
      'Twas a strange ole skiff
      With 'er keel skew-wiff,
   An' a double-ended bow.
      Yus, a nose each end,
      An' a grecian bend
   Amidships, quaint an' queer.
When I seen 'er take the water, "Ho!" ses I, "she is a snorter!"
   An' I gives a 'earty cheer.


      An' sail she did.
      But I'l lay ten quid
   No ship, befor enor since,
      Done 'ark 'er tricks;
      'Er darned ole fix
   'Ud make longshoremen wince.
      She'd bob and bow,
      The blamed old scow,
   Like a wet an' foolish 'en;
An' 'er subsekint behav'er an' the effects fer to save 'er
   Was a treat fer sialor-men.


      An' Alf 'e was
      'Er skipper, 'cos
   No other could be got
      To sail that craft!
      An' fore an' aft
   They was a rare ole lot.
      So queer a crew
      I never knew
   An' Joe, 'e was fust mate.
An' to 'ear 'im scold and rate 'er, when 'e tried to navigate 'er -
   Well, I tell yeh, it was great!


      Fer some they said
      To point 'er 'ead
   Fer nor'-nor'-east by east,
      Fer Tory Bay,
      An' some said "Nay,"
   An' the langwidge never eased.
      An' some they pressed
      To sail doo west,
   Fer the ole Freetection port.
An' the way she waltzed an' wobbled, while they 'owled an' fought an' squabbled.
   Ho, I never seen sich sport!


      An' poor ole Joe!
      'Is watch below
   Was mostly short an' sweet;
      Fer 'e never knew
      Wot time that crew
   Might up an' change 'er beat.
      But Alf, the boss,
      'E took 'is doss,
   An' 'e let 'er sail or stop;
Fer in days when seas was finer 'e was skipper of a liner,
   An' 'e sorter felt the drop.


      Now, she dropped at last
      'Er anchor fast
   In the 'arbor of Recess.
      'Er sheets is tore,
      An' 'er plates is wore,
   An' she'll sail no more, I guess.
      Alf got the pip
      On 'er final trip,
   An' there's some as said 'e swore
'E was sickened of 'er capers; so 'e 'anded in 'id papers,
   An' she'll put to sea no more.


      But it's 'ip, 'ip, 'ip!
      fer the Fusion ship,
   Fer the navigatin' 'en!
      Since 'er cruise begun
      She 'as give great fun
   To us 'eart sailor-men.
      We 'ave cheered an' laughed
      An' joked an' chaffed
   Since the day she put to sea;
So I takes a pull and 'itches (as our 'abit is) my breeches,
   An' I give 'er three times three.

"Den"
The Bulletin, 23 January 1913, p26