Kerosine Bay

‘Tis strange on such a peaceful day With white clouds flying o’er, That foreign boats are in the bay As prisoners of war. The Harbour, where they quietly lay; Smiles brightly as of yore. Where never angry shot was fired To alter peaceful plans; Where British lumpers worked till tired With Yacob and with Hans, And ‘shouted’ when their work was done For other ‘sailormans’. And while we think of other lands And what is doing there, And while we think of what red hands May wreak in our despair – How can the Harbour be so blue, And the sky above so fair?