But where sleeps his brother?—­the cruise it was
    o’er,
But ah, for death’s grip that welcomed him
    ashore! 
Where’s Sid, the cadet, so frank in his brag,
Whose toast was audacious—­“Here’s Sid, and
    Sid’s flag!”
Like holiday-craft that have sunk unknown,
May a lark of a lad go lonely down? 
Who takes the census under the sea? 
Can others like old ensigns be,
Bunting I hoisted to flutter at the gaff—­
Rags in end that once were flags
Gallant streaming from the staff?

Such scurvy doom could the chances deal
To Top-Gallant Harry and Jack Genteel? 
Lo, Genteel Jack in hurricane weather,
Shagged like a bear, like a red lion roaring;
But O, so fine in his chapeau and feather,
In port to the ladies never once jawing;
All bland politesse, how urbane was he—­
"Oui, mademoiselle”—­“Ma chere amie!"

’T was Jack got up the ball at Naples,
Gay in the old Ohio glorious;
His hair was curled by the berth-deck barber,
Never you’d deemed him a cub of rude Boreas;
In tight little pumps, with the grand dames in
    rout,
A-flinging his shapely foot all about;
His watch-chain with love’s jeweled tokens
    abounding,
Curls ambrosial shaking out odors,
Waltzing along the batteries, astounding
The gunner glum and the grim-visaged loaders.

Wife, where be all these blades, I wonder,
Pennoned fine fellows, so strong, so gay? 
Never their colors with a dip dived under;
Have they hauled them down in a lack-lustre
    day,
Or beached their boats in the Far, Far Away? 
Hither and thither, blown wide asunder,
Where’s this fleet, I wonder and wonder. 
Slipt their cables, rattled their adieu,
(Whereaway pointing? to what rendezvous?)
Out of sight, out of mind, like the crack
    Constitution,
And many a keel time never shall renew—­
Bon Homme Dick o’ the buff Revolution,
The Black Cockade and the staunch True-Blue.

Doff hats to Decatur!  But where is his blazon? 
Must merited fame endure time’s wrong—­
Glory’s ripe grape wizen up to a raisin? 
Yes! for Nature teems, and the years are
    strong,
And who can keep the tally o’ the names that
    fleet along!

But his frigate, wife, his bride?  Would
    blacksmiths brown
Into smithereens smite the solid old renown? 
Rivetting the bolts in the iron-clad’s shell,
Hark to the hammers with a rat-tat-tat;
“Handier a derby than a laced cocked hat! 
The Monitor was ugly, but she served us right
    well,
Better than the Cumberland, a beauty and the
    belle.”

Better than the Cumberland!—­Heart alive
    in me! 
That battlemented hull, Tantallon o’ the sea,
Kicked in, as at Boston the taxed chests o’ tea! 
Ay, spurned by the ram, once a tall, shapely
    craft,
But lopped by the Rebs to an iron-beaked
    raft—­
A blacksmith’s unicorn in armor cap-a-pie.