Masthead—masthead, the signal sped by the
line o’ the British craft;
The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her
about and laughed:—
“It’s mainsail haul, my bully boys all—we’ll
out to the seas again—
Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub
at his grapnel-chain.
“It’s fore-sheet free, with her head to
the sea, and the swing of the unbought brine—
We’ll make no sport in an English court till
we come as a ship o’ the Line: Till we
come as a ship o’ the Line, my lads, of thirty
foot in the sheer, Lifting again from the outer main
with news of a privateer; Flying his pluck at our
mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, Heaving his head
for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea.
“Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam—we
stand on the outward tack, We are paid in the coin
of the white man’s trade—the bezant
is hard, ay, and black.
“The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the
Kling and the Orang-Laut How a man may sail from a
heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port; How
a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great
Captains there Shall dip their flag to a slaver’s
rag—to show that his trade is fair!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown
Would sweep the Channel clean,
Wherefore she kept her hatches close
When the merry Channel chops arose,
To save the bleached marine.
She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,
And a great stern-gun beside;
They dipped their noses deep in the sea,
They racked their stays and stanchions free
In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
Fell in with a cruiser light
That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun
And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run
From the grip of a close-fought fight.
She opened fire at seven miles—
As ye shoot at a bobbing cork—
And once she fired and twice she fired,
Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired
That lolls upon the stalk.
“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,
The deck-beams break below,
’Twere well to rest for an hour or twain,
And patch the shattered plates again.”
And he answered, “Make it so.”
She opened fire within the mile—
As ye shoot at the flying duck—
And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,
With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue,
And the great stern-turret stuck.
“Captain, the turret fills with steam,
The feed-pipes burst below—
You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,
You can hear the twisted runners jam.”
And he answered, “Turn and go!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
And grimly did she roll;
Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire
As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire
When they war by the frozen Pole.
“Captain, the shells are falling fast,
And faster still fall we;
And it is not meet for English stock
To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock
The death they cannot see.”
