John Bull, my friend, if an ear you'll lend to your true old messmate Neptune,

It may do you good. We are mates in mood, and our hearts have always kept tune.

The Isle that's right, and extremely tight— which I trust that mayn't mean "groggy"—

Is our care, old chum! Well, the outlook's rum, and the prospect rather foggy!

Oh! keep on your hair! There's no cause for Scare, though some party men, and papers,

Do their best to raise a new Naval Craze. These be old, old party capers;

For your angry Outs always swell with doubts, whilst the Cocksure Ins, complacent,

Swear that cause for care may be found— Nowhere, or the parts thereto adjacent.

You are not so green that mere party spleen, and the bogus bosh of boobies,

Can play the fool with your judgment cool; 'tis a richer dower than rubies.

Still a Fleet, old boy, is no party toy, no theme for factious scoffing,

And—well, John, I spot a tremendous lot of "furrin'" ships in the offing!

Keep a weather eye upon sea and sky, and I think John, altogether,

You will deem it right to get all things tight, and prepare for dirty weather.

"Britons never, never," sounds bold and clever; Britannia won't act as "slavey,"

But if "Missus" would keep her "home on the deep," you must keep up a spanking Navy!

Statistics fog, and there's no such bog as the brain of an average Briton

When his Naval Nobs, and Finance Dry Bobs have got their fighting fit on.

They talk great bosh, half their "facts" won't wash, and as to their figures endless,—

If from stern to stem you could see through them you would have more, John, and spend less!

A word in your lug! There is no Hum-bug like that of a Naval Oracle,

When he's "out in the wet"; on that you may bet—ah! an ironclad to a coracle!

He may mean well, but The Truth to tell in a fashion straight and steady,

Without "cavort" or a "list to port," is as hard—as song to a Neddy!

Johnny, old boy, you must just employ your own wits on this business;

Party debate will addle your pate, ex-parte "facts" bring dizziness.

Look for yourself, and you'll save much pelf, and good value get for your money,

Squelch party fudge, be your own best judge, and you'll floor the croakers, Johnny!

Still, Johnny mine, on my breadths of brine, you must keep first place, or perish.

'Tis with that thought you have paid and fought, and that thought you still must cherish.

Better plank down your last half-crown, than lose the Crown I gave you,

Let gold and blood flow in full flood, than let the foe enslave you!

A rhyme, a rhyme for the Christmas time! It may not, John, sound jolly,

But to pipe and dance whilst your foes advance, were the maddest sort of folly.

With pockets full Peace's pipe to pull, or to sip your grog and slumber,

Is nice; but you'll wake to a huge mistake if your foes your Fleet outnumber!

Get your Fleet, old man, cheap if you can, but at all costs get your Fleet, John!

Ships, guns and crew more than any two of the foes you are like to meet John!

Take your old friend's tip, let no chance slip, and be foiled by no pretence, John;

Keep eye on the foe, build all you know, and big big D the expense, John!