Hawke

In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,
  When Hawke came swooping from the West,
The French King’s Admiral with twenty of the line,
  Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest. 
The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum
With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum,
For bragging time was over and fighting time was come
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

’Twas long past noon of a wild November day
  When Hawke came swooping from the West;
He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay,
  But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast. 
Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,
But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon’s glare for light
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind
  When Hawke came swooping from the West;
One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned,
  And the shallows and the storm took the rest. 
The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore,
The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more,
For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Bright Medusa

(1807)

She’s the daughter of the breeze,
She’s the darling of the seas,
  And we call her, if you please, the bright Medu—­sa;
From beneath her bosom bare
To the snakes among her hair
  She’s a flash o’ golden light, the bright Medu—­sa.

When the ensign dips above
And the guns are all for love,
  She’s as gentle as a dove, the bright Medu—­sa;
But when the shot’s in rack
And her forestay flies the Jack,
  He’s a merry man would slight the bright Medu—­sa.

When she got the word to go
Up to Monte Video,
  There she found the river low, the bright Medu—­sa;
So she tumbled out her guns
And a hundred of her sons,
  And she taught the Dons to fight the bright Medu—­sa.

When the foeman can be found
With the pluck to cross her ground,
  First she walks him round and round, the bright Medu—­sa;
Then she rakes him fore and aft
Till he’s just a jolly raft,
  And she grabs him like a kite, the bright Medu—­sa.

She’s the daughter of the breeze,
She’s the darling of the seas,
  And you’ll call her, if you please, the bright Medu—­sa;
For till England’s sun be set—­
And it’s not for setting yet—­
  She shall bear her name by right, the bright Medu—­sa.

The Old Superb