'It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all-we'll out

to the seas again—

'Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain.

'It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the unbought brine

'We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line:

'Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer,

'Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer;

'Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty,

Heaving his head for our dipsy-lead in sign that

we keep the sea.

'Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam

we stand on the outward tack,

'We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade -the bezant is hard, ay, and black.

'The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling

and the Orang-Laut

'How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port;

'How a man may be robbed in Christian port. while Three Great Captains there

'Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag-to show that his trade is fair!'

THE BALLAD OF THE 'CLAMPHER

DOWN'

IT was our war-ship 'Clampherdown
Would sweep the Channel clean,
Wherefore she kept her hatches close
When the merry Channel chops arose,
To save the bleached marine.

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,
And a great stern-gun beside;

They dipped their noses deep in the sea,
They racked their stays and stanchions free
In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

It was our war-ship 'Clampherdown'

Fell in with a cruiser light

That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun
And a pair o' heels wherewith to run

From the grip of a close-fought fight.

She opened fire at seven miles

As ye shoot at a bobbing cork—

And once she fired and twice she fired,
Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired
That lolls upon the stalk.

'Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, 'The deck-beams break below,

"Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, ‘And botch the shattered plates again.' And he answered, 'Make it so.'

She opened fire within the mile

As ye shoot at the flying duck

And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,

With the heave of the ship, to the stainless

blue,

And the great stern-turret stuck.

'Captain, the turret fills with steam,

'The feed-pipes burst below

'You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,

'You can hear the twisted runners jam.'

And he answered, 'Turn and go!'

It was our war-ship 'Clampherdown,'
And grimly did she roll;

Swung round to take the cruiser's fire

As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire When they war by the frozen Pole.

Captain, the shells are falling fast,

'And faster still fall we;

'And it is not meet for English stock

'To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock 'The death they cannot see.'

'Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,

'We drift upon her beam;

'We dare not ram, for she can run;

'And dare ye fire another gun,

'And die in the peeling steam?'