Theirs was the life of the storm-god’s folk,
Uncounted miles from the Fatherland,
With a foe beneath every wisp of smoke,
And a menace in every strip of strand.
Up, glasses! Paul Jones was but one of these,
Hull, Bainbridge, Decatur, their brothers, too!
(Ha! those pirate nights
In a ring of foes,
When you douse your lights
And drive home your blows!)
Hats off to the Emden’s crew!
Erect on the wave-washed decks stood they
And heard with a Viking’s grim delight
The whirr of the wings of death by day
And the voice of death in their dreams by night!
Under the sweep of the wings of death,
By the blazing gun, in the tempest’s breath,
While a world of enemies strove and fumed,
Remote, unaided, undaunted, doomed,
They stood—is there any, friend or foe,
Who will choke a cheer?—who can still but scoff?
No, no, by the gods of valor, no!
To the Emden’s crew—
[Footnote A: The second installment of this chronology, recording events to and including Jan. 7, 1915, will appear in the next issue. The chronology will then be continued in each succeeding issue.]