’Twas with the spring-fleet she went out,
The English Channel to cruise about,
When four French sail, in show so stout,
Bore down on the Arethusa. 
The fam’d Belle Poule straight ahead did lie,
The Arethusa seem’d to fly,
Not a sheet, or a tack,
Or a brace did she slack,
Tho’ the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff,
But they knew not the handful of men, so tough,
On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France,
We, with two hundred, did advance
On board of the Arethusa. 
Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, ho! 
The Frenchman then cried out, hallo! 
“Bear down, d’ye see
To our Admiral’s lee.” 
“No, no,” said the Frenchman, “that can’t be”;
“Then I must lug you along with me,”
Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman’s land,
We forc’d them back upon their strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand
Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more,
Let each fill a glass
To his favourite lass! 
A health to our captain, and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew,
On board of the Arethusa.

VIII

COPENHAGEN

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the day,
When, their haughty powers to vex,
He engaged the Danish decks;
And with twenty floating wrecks
Crowned the fray.

    All bright, in April’s sun,
        Shone the day,
    When a British fleet came down
    Through the island of the Crown,
    And by Copenhagen town
        Took their stay.

    In arms the Danish shore
        Proudly shone;
    By each gun the lighted brand
    In a bold determined hand,
    And the Prince of all the land
        Led them on.

    For Denmark here had drawn
        All her might;
    From her battleships so vast
    She had hewn away the mast,
    And at anchor, to the last
        Bade them fight.

    Another noble fleet
        Of their line
    Rode out; but these were nought
    To the batteries which they brought,
    Like Leviathans afloat
        In the brine.

    It was ten of Thursday morn
        By the chime;
    As they drifted on their path
    There was silence deep as death,
    And the noblest held his breath
        For a time—­

    Ere a first and fatal round
        Shook the flood. 
    Every Dane looked out that day. 
    Like the red wolf on his prey,
    And he swore his flag to sway
        O’er our blood.

    Not such a mind possessed
        England’s tar;
    ’Twas the love of noble game
    Set his oaken heart on flame,
    For to him ’twas all the same,
        Sport and war.