trackend
Chief Master Sergeant
This Poem was first published in 1944
In my opinion it sums up the Stringbag, the peggy refered to in the poem was the nick name for the ultra reliable Bristol Pegasus engine that powered the Swordfish (not sure I agree with the line about the Barracuda tho)
Between a cloud and a cloud I saw you glide
in that last light,lee's of cup and day your good ole peggy bumbling away
the sky and the night and the sea beneath you wide
and lonely three infinites grey.
But you had purpose,Swordfish. You were going
about your business at that steady amble
Which seems so comic to those who have not seen
your shaking,snaking path when you are throwing
yourself about the sky,shells bursts between each bank,
or out turning a fighter in the gamble for hitting space
you fraud of a Stringbag, you.
What can you do with a Stringbag?
what can,t you do?
you can aerobat you can stand her on her tail
go into vertical dive and pull out sweetly
you wont find a Stringbag doing a stall.
You can take her up in any weather at all that can be flown in
you can trust her completely even if the visibility's next to nil
or you have land in a mid Atlantic gale.
Whatever the job you give her she will not fail
if there are kills to be made she'll be in at the kill.
Bombing? she carrys more than a Blenhiem does
and watch her spot for the battle fleet
She'll torpedo a cruiser as soon as she gets the buzz
and you can ask Doenitz the U-boat are her meat.
Oh they spoil you for other aircraft for good do Swordfishes-
they've always looked obsolescent the've nevr been obsolete
they give a fellow the feeling of confidence and ease
like seasoned pipe,or a dog you've trained, or old shoes kind to the feet.
For crews have learned to trust them who have had time to learn.
In long lonely hours of night flight when the sky is a dry point plate
as in the infinite instant or the first evasive turn after the fish strikes water and they open up on the crate.
Well the've stopped producing Stringbags and doubtless they know best
I'll fly the kites they give me and think of my earliest love.
They're grand are the Barracudas and the Seafires and the rest but I know the psalmist meant now when he sighed for the wings of a dove.
After the war is over when the brave new world appears
with planes to suit all pockets and a seat in a sky-trains cheap
if Icannot purchase a stringbag to solace my latter years
as once men took to a bathchair perhaps I'll take to a jeep.
R.C.S
In my opinion it sums up the Stringbag, the peggy refered to in the poem was the nick name for the ultra reliable Bristol Pegasus engine that powered the Swordfish (not sure I agree with the line about the Barracuda tho)
Between a cloud and a cloud I saw you glide
in that last light,lee's of cup and day your good ole peggy bumbling away
the sky and the night and the sea beneath you wide
and lonely three infinites grey.
But you had purpose,Swordfish. You were going
about your business at that steady amble
Which seems so comic to those who have not seen
your shaking,snaking path when you are throwing
yourself about the sky,shells bursts between each bank,
or out turning a fighter in the gamble for hitting space
you fraud of a Stringbag, you.
What can you do with a Stringbag?
what can,t you do?
you can aerobat you can stand her on her tail
go into vertical dive and pull out sweetly
you wont find a Stringbag doing a stall.
You can take her up in any weather at all that can be flown in
you can trust her completely even if the visibility's next to nil
or you have land in a mid Atlantic gale.
Whatever the job you give her she will not fail
if there are kills to be made she'll be in at the kill.
Bombing? she carrys more than a Blenhiem does
and watch her spot for the battle fleet
She'll torpedo a cruiser as soon as she gets the buzz
and you can ask Doenitz the U-boat are her meat.
Oh they spoil you for other aircraft for good do Swordfishes-
they've always looked obsolescent the've nevr been obsolete
they give a fellow the feeling of confidence and ease
like seasoned pipe,or a dog you've trained, or old shoes kind to the feet.
For crews have learned to trust them who have had time to learn.
In long lonely hours of night flight when the sky is a dry point plate
as in the infinite instant or the first evasive turn after the fish strikes water and they open up on the crate.
Well the've stopped producing Stringbags and doubtless they know best
I'll fly the kites they give me and think of my earliest love.
They're grand are the Barracudas and the Seafires and the rest but I know the psalmist meant now when he sighed for the wings of a dove.
After the war is over when the brave new world appears
with planes to suit all pockets and a seat in a sky-trains cheap
if Icannot purchase a stringbag to solace my latter years
as once men took to a bathchair perhaps I'll take to a jeep.
R.C.S
to the stringbag
