IT WAS Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bag And rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call a swag; And he tramped from Darkest Russia, that it might be dark no more, Dreaming of a port, and shipping, as no monarch dreamed before. Of a home, and education, and of children staunch and true, Like my father in the fifties--and his name was Peter, too. (He could build a ship--or fiddle, out of wood, or bark, or hide. Sail one round the world and play the other one at eventide.)
Russia's Peter (not my father) went to Holland in disguise, Where he laboured as a shipwright underneath those gloomy skies; Later on he went to England (which the Kaiser now--condemns) Where he studied as a ship-smith by old Deptford on the Thames-- And no doubt he knew the rope-walk--(and the rope's end too, he knew)-- Learned to build a ship and sail it--learned the business through and through. And I'd like to say my father mastered navigation too. (He was born across in Norway, educated fairly well, And he grafted in a ship-yard by the Port of Arundel.)
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