All hands and eyes on watch
        As they keep;
    By their motion light as wings,
    By each step that haughty springs,
    You might know them for the kings
        Of the deep.

    ’Twas the Edgar first that smote
        Denmark’s line
    As her flag the foremost soared,
    Murray stamped his foot on board,
    And an hundred cannons roared
        At the sign.

    Three cheers of all the fleet
        Sung Huzza! 
    Then from centre, rear, and van,
    Every captain, every man,
    With a lion’s heart began
        To the fray.

    Oh, dark grew soon the heavens—­
        For each gun,
    From its adamantine lips,
    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
    Like a hurricane eclipse
        Of the sun.

    Three hours the raging fire
        Did not slack;
    But the fourth, their signals drear
    Of distress and wreck appear,
    And the Dane a feeble cheer
        Sent us back.

    The voice decayed; their shots
        Slowly boom. 
    They ceased—­and all is wail,
    As they strike the shattered sail,
    Or in conflagration pale
        Light the gloom.

    Oh, death—­it was a sight
        Filled our eyes! 
    But we rescued many a crew
    From the waves of scarlet hue,
    Ere the cross of England flew
        O’er her prize.

    Why ceased not here the strife,
        Oh, ye brave? 
    Why bleeds old England’s band
    By the fire of Danish land,
    That smites the very hand
        Stretched to save?

    But the Britons sent to warn
        Denmark’s town: 
    Proud foes, let vengeance sleep! 
    If another chain-shot sweep—­
    All your navy in the deep
        Shall go down.

    Then, peace instead of death
        Let us bring! 
    If you’ll yield your conquered fleet,
    With the crews, at England’s feet,
    And make submission meet
        To our King.

    The Dane returned, a truce
        Glad to bring: 
    He would yield his conquered fleet,
    With the crews, at England’s feet,
    And make submission meet
        To our King.

    Then death withdrew his pall
        From the day;
    And the sun looked smiling bright
    On a wide and woeful sight
    Where the fires of funeral light
        Died away.

    Yet, all amidst her wrecks
        And her gore,
    Proud Denmark blest our chief
    That he gave her wounds relief,
    And the sounds of joy and grief
        Filled her shore.

    All round, outlandish cries
        Loudly broke;
    But a nobler note was rung
    When the British, old and young,
    To their bands of music sung
        “Hearts of Oak.”