Classic Poem

'Tis strange, on such a peaceful day
With white clouds flying o'er,
That foreign boats are in the bay
As prisoners of war.
And we, in spite of all they say,
Can't understand what for.

Where never angry shot was fired
To alter city 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 what yet may be
Before we are aware—
How can the Harbour be so blue,
The Harbour sky so fair?