The Withered Arm

The Navy once is packing up, in preparation for the removal.

The axe has fallen with a heavy
thud;
The flags are furled; the tape is
towed away;
The fleet will soon be anchored in the
mud,
Or buffeted by gales—in Hobson's
Bay.

The sanctum of the Heads has felt
the cut,
(The Admiral is leaving for his
farm)
Economy will leave us nothing but
A withered arm.

The Navy packs its kit; The Day is
o'er,
And shadows fall; but dreams and
memories
Will linger while the waters wash the
shore;
And ships of peace are riding on
the seas.

Its glory lives, and beacons on the
coast
Will twinkle from the headlands as
they greet
Those unseen shapes, and flash their
nightly toast:
The Phantom Fleet!